


Elusive

by kuriadalmatia



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Criminal Minds Big Bang, F/M, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Reid quits the BAU shortly after Elle resigns, Hotch struggles to keep his marriage and new team together. The only things that get Hotch through the day are letters from Reid as the former agent travels the US. With two cold cases haunting the team and the murder of Gideon’s longtime friend, Hotch reaches his breaking point and contacts Reid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few key points about this A/U – Reid leaves the Bureau shortly after Elle in Season 2 (prior to “The Big Game/Revelations”) and Hotch and Haley never had a child. I’ve taken some liberties with S1 & S2 case timeline as well as replacements on the team. Please note there are references to canon cases but this does not necessarily follow the canon timeline. Some locations mentioned in this work have been fictionalized.
> 
> Special thanks to ice_ziggee for keeping me in line with the first half of the story, offering sound advice and for the encouragement. I adore her to bits. All the mistakes you find are absolutely mine. Thanks to @Kitten0409 for tracking down the screencaps for Hotch’s divorce papers. To daylyn for the “Banned Casinos” question. The artwork created by blythechild is absolutely stunning and I can't thank her enough for her patience and encouragement as I struggled with writing this story. Finally, to the mods at cm_bigbang for their patience and graciousness for allowing me quite an extension. Thank you all!
> 
> Disclaimer:The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds and Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. 
> 
> ARTIST LINKS  
>  **Title:** "You're not a failure"  & "I won't share you"  
>  **Artist:** blythechild  
>  **Pairings:** Hotch/Reid  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** Men getting friendly, but nothing racy  
>  **Artist's notes:** Created for 's "Elusive". These images were hand drawn and then digitally enhanced.  
>  **Disclaimer:** While I do not own the rights to characters from _Criminal Minds_ , I DO own the rights to these images. Please do not re-post or alter them without my written consent.  
>  **Art Link:** [Link to Artist's Blog](http://blythechild.livejournal.com/499605.html#cutid1)

_~~~~~~~_

_“A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely.” – Pam Brown_

_~~~~~~~_

The only reason why Hotch stopped his brutal, verbal profile of the smug man sitting in front of him— _the only reason_ —was because he caught the look that flashed in Reid's eyes. Hotch was in the face of Craig Marcheon Senior, the uncooperative father of their prime suspect. Marcheon’s alcoholism, womanizing, and systematic abuse of his eldest son were the foundation for the UnSub’s psychopathy and Hotch explained that to the older man in very specific, harsh terms.

The analytical part of Hotch—the one not caught up in the fervor of taking this man down a peg—gave Marcheon credit for reading him so well, for choosing the exact moment to spit out a comment to incite Hotch’s wrath. It was that moment that made Hotch loose his famed self-control.

Hotch would have continued to dismantle this bully, to dig deeper into the man’s psyche and pull out all the skeletons that were hidden behind closed doors, except that—for whatever reason—he glanced at Reid.

The newest member of the BAU didn’t attempt to stop him from going after Marcheon. Clearly, the man thought that interrupting would be a bad idea. Instead, Reid observed the exchange with an almost-blank look on his face. Except for that flash in his eyes, one which Hotch couldn’t even begin to decipher.

It took an enormous amount of willpower, but Hotch reined himself in. He ended the interview with a sarcastic, “Thank you,” and marched out of the bastard’s home. They were no closer to finding Marcheon Junior, and all Hotch had accomplished was giving Reid a crystal clear picture of his childhood. Oh, and Marcheon fodder for his (possible) defense testimony.

By the time he and Reid were back in the SUV, Hotch regained control of himself. Embarrassed that he crossed the line and his subordinate had seen it, Hotch knew he had to explain … apologize … _something_ …. The words were surprisingly hard to say to a rookie with barely six months of the BAU under his belt. "Reid … I …" 

"You don't have to explain," Reid interrupted him softly. The younger man met his gaze, his empathy and warmth clear. "You really don't."

So, like a coward, Hotch didn't because he knew that if he tried to, Reid would launch into one of those unbearable rambles.

Reid never mentioned it again.

But the thing about Reid's eidetic memory—which was primarily visual but with some aural aspects—was that Reid never forgot.

Hotch would realize that later.

Much, much later.

_~~~~~~~~_

_David Rossi once said, "It's not the biggest cases that make you question why you're doing this. It's the 'no brainers' that really make you sit back, take a full swig from the bottle, and say, 'What the fuck?'"_

_~~~~~~~~_

In the ruthless way Hotch's mind worked, he knew it was easy to replace Elle. She was intelligent and intuitive, the type of agent that the BAU strives to recruit. Although the gunshot would had healed, she never mentally recovered from the damaged inflicted by Randall Garner. She rebuffed Hotch’s attempts to reach out to her after her shooting; it was clear she still blamed him for her injury.

As much as he didn’t like it, Hotch knew he would have to accept that. Still, passionate agents like Elle knocked on his door all the time (or were thrust in his lap by Strauss and he was forced to take them on). 

Reid, however, was a different story. Hotch tried his best to follow up with his youngest agent beyond the Sunday dinners that became a weekly ritual since the man joined the team. He could see the guilt eating away at Reid, how Reid blamed himself for the entire Fisher King mess and especially for Elle’s injury. 

Hotch’s arguments that Reid was blameless, that the only person responsible for Garner’s actions was Garner, were met with a bland stare and a shrug of the shoulders. Even when Hotch ground out that _he_ gave the order to send Elle home, that _he_ didn’t specifically tell Anderson to stay with her, and that _he_ should have sent her to the same hotel where Haley was in protective custody made no difference in Reid’s perception of his own guilt.

But when Elle crossed that line and killed William Lee? (Okay, she never admitted it and Dayton cops considered the case closed as did Internal Affairs, but … _Hotch knew_.)

Christ.

"He's going to leave the BAU," Hotch quietly declared one night when he and Haley were in bed with the lights off. Reid left an hour ago after having dinner with them and watching Sunday Night Football. 

"Spencer seemed fine tonight," Haley replied as she tugged on the blankets. 

Hotch stared at the ceiling, recalling the evening’s conversation. The verbal sleight-of-hand that Reid excelled at had been on full display. It was why Hotch sighed, "That's what worries me."

_~~~~~~~~_

_"There comes a time when you realize you can't catch them all. The question you have to ask yourself is: do I keep chasing?" – Katie Coles_

_~~~~~~~~~_

"Maybe you just need some time off," was Hotch's immediate response after reading the opening lines of the letter Reid handed him. He knew it was what Reid was hoping he _wouldn't_ say but the phrase just tumbled out. The words were what Gideon would say, what Gideon always said when one of his protégés wanted to call it quits. 

What Hotch wanted to tell Reid was: _I envy that you know your breaking point._

God knows, Hotch had no clue what his own was.

Disappointment and hurt flared briefly in Reid's eyes but it was replaced by a cool expression. 

Neutral. Isolated. Almost disdainful.

"This is what I want, sir," Reid told him, tones formal and posture Academy perfect.

"My door is always open," Hotch managed to choke out as he extended his hand. He wasn't going to fight Reid's resignation. He couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. He hoped the, "On and off the record," didn't sound as desperate as he thought.

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Aaron," he corrected softly. "Please, call me Aaron. And I do hope you will continue to have dinner with us on Sundays. Haley is convinced she can make you like football."

Reid ghosted a smile. "Thank you for the invitation. I'll … I'll do my best."

_~~~~~~~~~_

_"You know that it's coffee at nine in the morning but green tea with mint at three in the afternoon. You know what to order for lunch on a Tuesday if you're in San Fran's Mission District and when to purchase that gossip mag for the flight. You know their behavior. They know yours. But you know what? You don't really **know** them, and they don't know you at all." – Elle Greenaway_

_~~~~~~~~~_

The new configuration of the team was working (sort of, not really), but it was the best Hotch could do with the talent available and the limitations set forth by Strauss. Supposedly because of budget cuts, he was only allowed to bring in one new person to the team. JJ took the steps to become an official profiler while Beth Griffith, recently transferred from CTU, took over the geographic and linguistic analyses for the team.

Reid's departure took more out of them than anyone was willing to admit, especially Gideon. The senior agent continued to withdraw from the group, and Hotch knew it was only a matter of time before Gideon completely dropped off the grid, whether by his own hand or simply disappearing.

They'd get through it; they always did. 

Hotch hadn't heard from Reid for almost two months and he worried. Haley worried. She even called Reid's landline only to find it had been disconnected although he still maintained his old apartment. Reid's cell phone had been a Bureau issued one, and to Hotch's knowledge, the man never got a private line. Hotch was tempted to ask Garcia to track Reid; he wondered if she was keeping tabs on her Boy Wonder. Yet, he refrained.

Spencer Reid stepped away from the Job, and Hotch had to respect that, even though he didn't want to.

Sixty-seven days after Hotch's last contact with Reid (not that he was keeping track on his calendar or anything), a letter arrived at the Hotchner home. He recognized the stationary immediately; it was the same type of envelope Reid used to send his daily correspondence to his mother. Yes, Hotch pounced on it like an overeager child getting a letter from Santa, but he worried, damn it.

Reid's script was flawless, precise. It was nothing like the scribbled notes he would turn in with case files. This? This was elegant. His words? Lyrical. Reid wrote about taking Amtrak along the East Coast since travel for pleasure was something he had never done before. 

The postmark was from Charleston, South Carolina; Reid included historical tidbits about what he'd seen. Four paragraphs were dedicated to how South Carolina was once known as the Iodine State and the SC Natural Resources Commission did a PR campaign in the 1920’s and 30’s to promote the high levels of the chemical found in the state’s fruit and vegetation. There was no mention of serial killers or anything remotely about the Job. 

Hotch read the letter twice. He shared it with Haley because she worried about Reid as well, and there was nothing in the letter deeply personal to Reid. He carefully placed it back in the envelope and made space for it in his home office desk.

The next day, he casually mentioned to Garcia, JJ, Morgan and Gideon that he'd received correspondence since the former agent had requested Hotch to do so. Garcia, Morgan and JJ were delighted about the update from their former colleague. The news hadn't gone over well with Gideon; Hotch could see the jealousy brimming just below the indifferent veneer. 

Reid's former mentor did not like it when "talent was wasted,” and he firmly believed Reid’s was after the younger agent left. Gideon also didn't like being snubbed.

Hotch ignored him.

~~~~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Hotch,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Raleigh, North Carolina …
> 
> … I ran into a former Cal-Tech classmate and he gave me a tour of Duke University. He then suggested that I interview for the opening in the social psychology department. My lecture skills are not the best, so I’ve never really considered teaching. However, there is the certain appeal and comfort of academia …
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Spencer Reid
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

There was no rhyme or reason when Hotch received a letter from Reid, post-marked from various cities in the Mid-Atlantic and South. At first, Hotch shared them with Haley, but she stopped reading after the third one. Reid still rambled, and a three page discourse on the economic impact of kudzu in the South was definitely something she was not interested in. Hotch also refrained from telling the Team about the letters; they had to move forward (although he would always be truthful if they were to ask if he'd heard from Reid. So far no one had). 

Hotch read each word. He mulled over the points Reid made and wondered how he would respond if Reid was sitting on his couch and they were debating. It was easy to imagine; those Sundays when Reid used to come over, Reid would launch into an obscure topic when he got bored with trying to comprehend the appeal of American football (soccer held more appeal to him but he never explained why) and the need for so many ED commercials. 

There was never a return address except for the city and state it was sent from, but on those nights when Hotch couldn't sleep (and those were increasing at a worrisome rate), he sat down at his home desk and responded to Reid's current letter. His own missives lacked the beauty and grace of Reid's, not only in his prose but in the sheer number of crossed-out words and sentences. Reid's letters never had such mistakes; Hotch wondered how many drafts Reid wrote before putting nib to vellum for the final version.

Probably none. It was just the way Reid was.

By the eleventh letter, Reid began addressing him as Aaron and signing the letters "Spencer," which sparked an unexpected giddiness in Aaron. Maybe it was because they were finally on a first name basis, that the last vestiges of the BAU hierarchy were finally gone between them. Spencer finally felt that they were friends, not colleagues. That Aaron was his confidant, not his boss.

They were equals, and Aaron treasured that.

_~~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Aaron,
> 
> … I bid you greetings from Miami, Florida
> 
> … The behavior of that reporter in Atlanta was appalling, especially his insistence on naming the UnSub despite the warning JJ issued about such a practice. The fact that he interrupted JJ several times and insisted that you specifically answer his questions showcased his lack of etiquette. 
> 
> The way you reprimanded him for his lack of manners was eloquent yet subtle, a gift I have always admired about you … 
> 
> In my travels, I have been trying to improve on my conversation skills. It has been difficult, yet I believe I have made some progress …
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

When details about the BAU's recent cases began appearing in to Spencer's letters, all Aaron could think of was David Rossi's quote: "Once a profiler, always a profiler." 

How true it was.

What was unexpected was the praise that Spencer heaped upon Aaron, flattery that was, at times, embarrassing as hell. In his letter from Jackson, Mississippi, Spencer gushed for a full page over a press conference Aaron gave in New Orleans during the ‘Jack the Ripper’ case.

Yes, it was over the top in some cases, but the recognition of his efforts made Aaron flush with pleasure. And when Aaron was having a particularly difficult day (which were far more than he wished to keep track of), he would pull out the letters and read the paragraphs in which Spencer praised his work.

_… You never trumpet your expertise. You allow your actions and dedication to the Job to speak for you. You inspire loyalty among those you work with._

Narcissistic? 

Maybe, but it was the validation he was sorely missing from home. 

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Aaron, 
> 
> I bid you warm greetings from Macon, Georgia …
> 
> … I happened across a two-hour program on recent vigilantism in the US. They devoted twenty-four minutes to the Marvin Doyle case we worked in New York, complete with reenactments. It was difficult to watch not only because of the terminology they used, but the actors they chose to portray us. 
> 
> However, it did get me thinking about vigilantism versus injustice collections. Injustice collectors, as you may know, are woefully underrepresented in the current academic discussions. Perhaps I should write a paper … 
> 
> With much admiration,   
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

"Remember that joker from the Hankel case in Georgia?" Morgan asked as he sauntered into Hotch's office, hands stuffed in his pockets. "That one reporter who kept calling the UnSub the ‘Revelations Revenger’? He then blasted you for the profile not being 100% accurate?" 

Hotch flinched a little, remembering Kenneth Cobbs. Luckily, the stupid-assed name the journalist had given their UnSub hadn’t stuck. However, the damage the man did at the press conferences—discrediting profiling by bringing up the 1996 Atlanta Olympic bombing mess—had almost cost them the case. The tip line had gone nearly silent after Cobbs zealously reminded the public about Richard Jewell’s plight as the wrongly-accused bomber.

"The guy was gunned down outside of a strip club in Atlanta," Morgan continued as he approached Hotch's desk. "Local office says it was mugging gone wrong." There wasn't anything gleeful in the man's tone; it was matter-of-fact. Sitting down, he added, "When they started digging into the case, they found that Cobbs was approaching publishers about his book about Hankel. Apparently, Cobbs boasted that he interviewed a former profiler in order to prove how badly we botched it."

Hotch frowned as he sat back in his chair. The BAU had the reputation for burning out agents, so it was possible that a bitter, former profiler took the opportunity to discredit the department. More specifically, those _in charge_ of the department. Despite the circumstances under which Elle left, he doubted she would lash out like that. 

And Reid? 

Well, Aaron knew exactly how Reid felt about reporters who cashed in on serial killers. Two weeks ago, the former agent dedicated two pages to it:

> _Why can’t they focus on the victims like Rossi and Ryan did? And if they do focus on the offender, they should use the correct terms. Would it be so difficult to actually explain hebephilia and ephebophilia instead of lumping all offenders under pedophiles?_

Reid had a particular disdain for Cobbs since the journalist had repeatedly attacked the BAU at the press conferences during and after the case.

"Has Atlanta asked us to look into it?" Hotch inquired instead. He wouldn’t be surprised if the lead agent or the sheriff contacted Morgan directly, eschewing the chain of command in favor of a personal connection.

"Nope, just thought it was interesting," Morgan replied as he sat down. “Makes me wonder which ‘profiling expert’ that guy supposedly interviewed. Atlanta says that they couldn’t find anything suggesting Cobbs had contact with current or former agents after we closed the case. Their team concluded the guy was just saying that to boost his credibility.”

“He’s not the first,” Hotch sighed, thinking about Reid’s letters. 

“Yeah, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be the last.”

~~~~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Tallahassee, Florida …
> 
> … It must have been difficult for you to sit in that courtroom during the Marcheon Junior trial and watch as the prosecution bungled the case. If Cohn had cited Delaware v. Donald Curtis as precedent for the reasonable cause for a search without a warrant, I believe the judge would have allowed the inclusion of key evidence. I fear that Marcheon’s trail will turn out the same way that Mel Ignatow’s did.
> 
> The impromptu press conferences held by Marcheon’s father after court adjourned for the day were galling, especially Senior’s vicious attacks on the BAU and you specifically. Why didn’t the presiding judge issue a gag order during the proceedings? Perhaps you should consider suing Marcheon for slander, because the accusations he has made are outrageous and demeaning …
> 
> With deepest admiration,  
>  Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

When Haley greeted him at the front door and kissed him solidly on the lips, Aaron was momentarily stunned. He couldn't remember the last time she'd done that. She was also dressed up for a Tuesday evening, wearing the pearl earrings and necklace he'd given her last Christmas, and the royal blue cashmere sweater and black wool skirt she usually reserved when she entertained. Her hair and makeup were done; the house smelled of roasted chicken and cinnamon. 

The animosity that brewed between them for months (despite the weekly counseling sessions) was conspicuously absent.

_Someone's here,_ Aaron immediately thought, although he went through the motions of a proper greeting. _Must be important because she's putting on a show._ He even tacked on, "You look lovely," just in case he was wrong and this was Haley's attempt at a romantic evening.

"Thank you," she cooed as she took his briefcase from him and set it by the closet.

"Good evening, Aaron," a voice called from the living room. A voice he hadn't heard in eleven months, sixteen days. 

Not that he was counting (or anything).

Aaron looked over. Spencer Reid was standing by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy cradled in his hand. The former agent looked … he looked stunning. Gone were the mismatched shirt, tie and sweater vest combos that were cringe-worthy. Instead, Reid was dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, matching dark gray shirt, and black tie. A pocket watch chain gleamed in the light. 

Reid's hair was still short, but not stick-straight and slicked back, which made him like Steve Buscemi's long-lost son. Instead, it was in soft, stylish waves. He held himself with confidence that had been missing in his final months at the BAU. There was a grace in the way he crossed the room, setting his brandy on the end table.

Aaron barely got out the, "Good seeing you …" before Spencer embraced him as if they had always greeted each other in this manner. 

The physical gesture momentarily floored Aaron. During his tenure at the BAU, Spencer rarely shook hands with people; he guarded his personal space ferociously. Spencer had barely tolerated pats on the back from Morgan and hugs from Garcia and Haley. He probably only gave in to the latter because they were women.

This gesture? It took Aaron a second to recover before he returned the embrace. The fine wool of Spencer’s jacket was smooth against Aaron’s fingers. The faded scent of sophisticated cologne was another change; the Spencer that Aaron had known in the BAU always eschewed fragrances.

Spencer released him and stepped back. His smile was warm, his eyes sparkling. A sheepish look crossed his features. "I apologize for the short notice," he said as he stepped back, "but I was in town."

"I told him he _must_ stay for dinner!" Haley added and then ushered them to the room before going back to the kitchen.

"I called Halley this morning to ask if I could drop off my manuscript." He gestured towards the coffee table where a thick manila folder sat on the corner. Spencer laughed, embarrassment seeping through. "She insisted on dinner."

"It's been _ages,_ Spencer," Haley said as she sailed into the room and handed Aaron a Manhattan on the rocks. As quick as she entered, she departed. 

Aaron stared after her, fighting to keep his features in check, yet when he glanced back at Spencer, he noticed how his gaze had followed her as well. Spencer glanced at Aaron's drink, frowned ever-so-slightly, and then cleared his throat. "To good friends," he said and held up his glass for a toast.

They tapped their glasses and sipped in unison. 

Haley reappeared with a charcuterie display on a crystal platter. She moved the folder to the middle of the table and set the platter on the end. "Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. You two _must_ catch up."

"Thank you," Aaron told her sincerely, brushing her cheek as she passed by. She giggled and went back into the kitchen. He sat down on the sofa and Spencer took the chair. He could tell by the set of Spencer's lips that he was about to make an observation.

Aaron hoped to God it wasn't about Haley over-compensating as a hostess.

Yet Spencer launched into a discourse about pâtés, rillettes, sausages, bacon, trotters, and head cheese. Aaron relaxed minutely, thanking whatever deities that in the months since Spencer's departure from the Bureau, the young man finally learned not to say the first thing that popped into his mind. 

Dinner was painfully pleasant. Haley played her role of happy homemaker and devoted wife to perfection. Aaron did his best to go along, distracted by his desperate wish that a smidgeon of this illusion was true. At Haley's prompting, Spencer explained his new wardrobe—"My degrees just unlock the door, but a suit keeps them open. I learned that from Aaron …"—and the various cities he visited. He delved briefly into the positive and negatives of traveling by train. 

When they were finished, Haley shooed them from the table. They retired to the living room and Aaron wondered if Haley was going to offer them cigars and more brandy. Haley soon joined them, bringing the tray laden with freshly baked snickerdoodles, the silver coffee urn only used on the big holidays, and the bone china cups. She served the coffee before sitting down next to Aaron.

Haley continued to focus the conversation on Spencer's travels, specifically on which sites were the ones to see versus the tourist traps. Spencer answered them with enthusiasm, although the brevity of his explanations was surprising. Gone was the wildly-rambling Reid, replaced by a master conversationalist. 

When the clock on the mantle chimed nine, Haley excused herself for the evening. Before she headed upstairs, she hugged Spencer—he embraced her with a smile—and she told him not to be a stranger. Haley then kissed Aaron and went up the stairs.

"Where are you staying?" Aaron suddenly asked, hoping that the younger man didn't already have a hotel room. It was a selfishly calculating question to ask; the longer Spencer stayed under his roof, the longer Aaron could pretend he had a working marriage.

"I still maintain an apartment in DC," Spencer answered. "Although it's more like a storage bin. I'll be in town a few days."

"Oh."

Spencer leaned forward. "I appreciate the hospitality, but I don't want to overstay my welcome."

"You're always welcome in my home, Spencer," Aaron found himself whispering.

"True," he replied, tone equally low. He paused, glanced away and gnawed on his lower lip for a few moments. Then, he added, "But it's not going to solve the problems you have here."

_Damn._ Astute. Concise. Aaron wanted to be angry at Spencer’s boldness, wanted to deny Spencer's observation, but laser precision on Spencer's words rendered him helpless. He winced. And for the love of God, he couldn’t explain why he asked, "That obvious?"

"Aaron, I know I wasn't with the BAU all that long, but it doesn't take a genius or a lot of experience to recognize the efforts to hide the splinters of a failing marriage."

A year ago, Aaron would have never dreamed of having this conversation with Reid. Reid had been his subordinate. Reid had never been in a serious relationship. Yet he had a connection with Spencer now, a deep friendship bourn the secrets that Spencer shared in his letters.

"Weekly counseling, when I'm in town." Aaron then shook his head, momentarily stunned by how easy his own confession fell from his lips. Something he carefully concealed from the team, from his family … from everyone. Christ, why was he confessing to Spencer? Oh, yeah. Spencer confessed a lot of things in his letters.

> _… When I was eleven, my mother insisted on celebrating Christmas on September 29 because it corresponded with the Jewish month of Tishri. Then next year, she decided that March 13 was the correct date …_
> 
> _… I opted for UNLV for my undergrad studies. The prospect of living on a campus 2,806 miles from home and sharing a living space with students six to ten years older than me was not as terrifying as you might presume. It was a chance to escape from the difficulties at home, to put distance between me and my mother's illness. Yet I could not leave her. She is my mother and I am not my father's son …_

Aaron rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. "I was able to find someone who understood the necessity of rebooking appointments at the last minute."

Spencer's hand was warm on his. His thumb brushed across the back of Aaron's hand. 

Aaron focused on the slender fingers resting on his cuff and the slow circle of Spencer's thumb against his skin. Arousal snaked through his system, unexpected yet welcomed.

It was the first time Aaron felt like that in _months_. 

So what if it was _Spencer_ touching him?

Touch was touch, and lately … the only type Aaron had nowadays was his own hand.

~~~~~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Cambridge, Massachusetts.
> 
> Thank you again for agreeing to review the draft. I look forward to your comments.
> 
> While I don't have a cell phone, I do have an answering service that I check daily. Leave a message and I will endeavor to return your call as soon as I can. Please do let me know what time zone you are in so I know when to call …
> 
> With deepest admiration,
> 
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

Aaron jolted awake, gasping for air as he blinked rapidly to banish the images. He latched on to the slender arm next to him, grounding himself as he tried to regulate his breathing. It was a variation of his usual nightmare of not being able to save Haley from an UnSub. Tonight, Spencer had been the victim and, Christ, the UnSub sounded like Hankel’s Raphael personality. He shivered as the sweat dripping off his face and soaking his t-shirt began to dry.

“Goddamn it, Aaron!” Haley snapped as she shook him off.

He looked down, barely making out her glare in the dim light of their bedroom. “Sorry,” he managed, voice higher than normal because of the adrenaline. 

She rolled back over, pulling the covers deliberately up over her shoulder. He barely heard her grumble, “The fourth time this week …”

Shame washed through him as he dropped his hands in his lap. 

There was a time when Haley used to sit up, wrap her arms around him, and soothe him with kisses and caresses. Haley used ask if he wanted to talk about it; Aaron had tried but always kept his explanations generic for fear that _she_ would have nightmares. They used to make love or, on the nights when the images were to horrific to be fucked away, she just held him.

That hadn’t happened in well over a year.

He glanced at the clock—2:23 AM—and offered, “I’ll sleep in the guest room,” as he usually did because it was the polite thing to do. Haley shouldn’t suffer because of his night terrors.

"Turn off your alarm," she groused as she shifted beneath the covers again.

Aaron did before he slid out of bed and grabbed his cell phone. He shuffled to the guest room, the same one he had offered Spencer those weeks ago. He sat on the edge of the bed, too awake to settle back down because the realization of how much things had changed with Haley. He knew that if he allowed himself to dwell the current state of his marriage, he would never get to sleep. Instead, he went to his home office and retrieved Spencer’s letter postmarked from Gainesville, Florida from the collection in his personal desk. 

He read it slowly, imagining Spencer saying the words aloud to him. Although Aaron really did not need to know the chemical properties of Gatorade, he was lulled into a sense of calm.

Spencer was okay. 

Aaron’s nightmare was just a nightmare.

And that hard-on Aaron suddenly had? Well, that was probably a byproduct of a very terrifying dream.

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> Dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Tupelo, Mississippi …
> 
> … Upon review, I realize that several of my theories on injustice collectors are flawed. For instance, I postulated that all are driven to this track, to these specific victims, based strictly on their personal life experiences. Example: the bullied victim takes his revenge upon those who tormented him or those who represent his tormentors. This may not be the case …
> 
> With deepest admiration,
> 
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

As JJ gave the details to their latest case in Memphis, Tennessee, Hotch paged through the autopsy reports of the two victims: Conrad Baysworth and Joel Wagner. Both were semi-successful corporate lawyers with a history of traffic violations. Hotch suspected that the “traffic violations” were DUI charges that were pleaded down based on the last arrests for both men, which resulted in court-ordered rehab. 

Both men had extremely high BACs, were beaten to death and had severe taser burns on their right hands. It was the latter that prompted Memphis PD to call them in, coupled with the five-day cooling off period between kills.

“M.E. speculates a baseball bat was used on both,” Morgan commented. “There’s no sign of restraints on either victim.”

“The UnSub probably took out their knees first to disable them,” Hotch theorized as he examined the photos more closely. “The severity of the beatings may indicate rage but there’s a precision to these blows. The UnSub is methodical in where he hits, not frenzied.”

“But what doesn’t make sense is the victims BAC levels. The first was 0.22, the second 0.24,” Griffith said. “If the purpose was for them to suffer, these guys were probably too wasted to fully register the pain. It contradicts the severity of the beating.”

"Both victims were in court-mandated rehab, which included weekly AA meetings. But, according to the records submitted as part of the sentencing, they didn't attend the same ones," JJ added. “Also, the last places the victims were seen were bars that were not near their homes or workplaces.”

"You think the UnSub is trolling meetings?" Morgan asked. "Listening to these guys tell their stories to find the ones who fit his needs?"

"Neither pleaded guilty," Gideon replied. "In fact, the records show that they were quite adamant about their innocence; they were _found_ guilty. Even in an anonymous setting, these guys aren't going to admit wrong-doing. I'm sure if we interviewed the meetings' leaders, they'll tell us that both refused to admit they had a problem."

"Maybe that's why the UnSub targeted them." Hotch squinted at one of the photos showing Baysworth’s battered right hand, noting the deep markings left by a Taser. "He felt they were making a mockery of meetings."

JJ flipped through the photos. "And the significance of the right hand being mutilated?"

"It's the UnSub’s signature," Gideon answered, "a manifestation of his own childhood experience. He was beaten by his father on a regular basis, even for the smallest infraction, and his father was right-handed."

"So, we've got a twenty- to thirty-year old white male," Gideon summarized. "High school graduate, maybe a few college courses but dropped out. Average looking. Doesn’t stand out in a crowd. The non-DUI convictions have to play in there somewhere. He could have lost someone to a drunk driver and takes it out on Wagner and Baysworth.

"At work? He's a cog in the machine. No one notices him and when they do, they ridicule him. He's a source of disappointment, never living up to his father's expectations. He lives with his parents or holds a low-level position in the family company or is forced to interact with his abuser daily in some capacity ..." 

~~~~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

~~~~~~~~

> _My dear Aaron,_
> 
> _I bid you greetings from Gulfport, Mississippi …_
> 
> _… I fully believe in the freedom of the press but not at the price of children's innocence. The same reporter who broke the news about the impending raid later accused you of being incapable of solving a case of such magnitude. It was an insult to his profession. The use of the phrase 'impotent investigator' makes me wonder if that reporter was projecting his own issues…_
> 
> _Affectionately yours, as always,  
>  Spencer_

~~~~~~~~

Aaron nearly dropped his gym bag as he neared his car in the parking lot of the Y. There, leaning casually against the trunk, was Spencer Reid. In the fading evening light, the younger man looked impossibly handsome, even with what Morgan would call a 'wannabe' beard. It aged Spencer a little, giving him a charmingly roguish look.

Like last time, Spencer was dressed in expertly tailored clothing. His hair was a little longer, but not much. His smile? His smile was radiant.

_Why the hell am I thinking **that**?_ Aaron's mind demanded.

"Aaron!" he called out and then took a few quick strides toward him. Like the last time, Spencer embraced him as he said, "I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," he blurted honestly as he closed his arms around Spencer. _God, are you **that** starved for physical attention?_ Aaron’s mind sneered but he did his best to ignore it. 

"I called Haley earlier and she said you would be here," Spencer told him as they parted. He didn't say that she had not invited him to over, but the implication was clear.

_The days of the happy housewife hoax are over,_ Aaron thought sourly.

"I'm only in town for the evening," Spencer continued. "I'm interviewing with Cornell late tomorrow morning, but I was hoping we could have dinner together. I mentioned to Haley that I'd like to take you both out to repay you both for all those times you provided dinner for me, but she declined."

"Wednesday is her book club night," Aaron clarified, trying his best not to spit out the last three words. 

"Oh," Spencer nodded and rocked a little on his feet. Panic welled up in Aaron, because that little motion was usually prelude to an observation. Yet all Spencer said was, "I understand."

Aaron's cell rang. He checked the ID: _Haley_. Eerily perfect timing. "Hold on." He took a step back and turned for some privacy; he knew it was a ludicrous move. Spencer probably figured everything out the moment he spoke to her earlier that day. "Hey, Haley."

"Did Spencer find you?"

"Yes, in the parking lot."

"Why don't you have dinner with him?" Haley told him, the cheerfulness in her voice a little too forced. "It’s so rare that Spencer's in town, Aaron. Go on! It’s my book club night anyway.”

He was tempted to challenger her on the whole ‘book club’ meeting, especially since she still claimed to worry about Spencer. If she worried so much, why wouldn’t she want to have dinner? _She’s avoiding him,_ his mind whispered, _and you know why. She’s afraid that he’ll confront her..._ Instead, he agreed with a dull, “Okay,” because he did not want to challenge her in front of Spencer.

“I’ve got to go. Bye!" 

“Bye,” he told her but knew she had already hung up. Aaron lowered the phone and stared at it for a few moments, centering himself before facing Spencer. He’d spent the last year trying to salvage his marriage and he was failing miserably. It made him feel less of a man because … because … he could guess exactly what “book club night” meant for Haley but he preferred to play ignorant.

The truth hurt too damn bad.

Spencer gently cupped his elbow. "I know of a place. Quiet. We can talk, if you'd like."

Aaron looked over his shoulder and found himself staring into Spencer’s eyes which were full of warmth, concern and understanding. Spencer was the one person besides the marriage counselor who had an inkling of what Aaron was going through personally. Someone who understood why Aaron was so dedicated to his job, who understood the reasons why Aaron tried so hard not to talk about work while at home. 

Aaron nodded his head as he said gratefully, "I'd like that very much."

Three hours and a bottle of wine later, Aaron had confessed the disaster of his marriage. It was unlike him to divulge such personal information, to a former subordinate no less, but it just felt right to say these things to Spencer. "She says I'm having an affair and my mistress is the Job."

Spencer nodded sympathetically. He picked at the napkin on the table. "Do you think …" The younger man faltered for the first time that evening, looking decidedly unsure. It reminded Hotch of those first few weeks Spencer was at the BAU and he was hesitant to test a theory. "Do you think …?"

"His name is Rick and he's an investment specialist," Hotch interrupted dully, blaming the wine on his candidness. "When Haley's uncle died, he left her quite a bit of money. She wanted to invest it long-term. At first, I thought the frequent calls were because of the different options available and some of the legalities. But ten weeks worth of that many calls and meetings?" Hotch shook his head. "It's a little much, especially when we signed the paperwork after the second week.” He trailed off. He couldn’t bear to look up and see the pity he was sure Spencer favored him with. 

If not pity, then sheer disappointment. Spencer made no bones about his admiration of Aaron, but how did the man feel now that Aaron had told him all this? Anger over his misplaced admiration? What kind of man willingly acknowledged his wife was having an affair yet he was doing nothing to stop it?

_The kind who has inappropriate thoughts about a former coworker,_ his mind answered primly.

Oh, God, why couldn’t Aaron keep his mouth shut like he did around everyone else?

Spencer’s voice was hushed. "I'm sorry, Aaron."

"So am I," he whispered miserably. He was a hypocrite, certainly. When Aaron wasn’t having nightmares about Spencer being killed, he dreamt of them debating some obscure topic as they sat naked in a steam room. And when he jerked off? Aaron’s most satisfying orgasms coincided with imagining Spencer working his cock. 

If Spencer knew any of that? Aaron wondered just how appalled the man would be. Yes, Spencer heaped praised and flattery upon Aaron in those letters, but did that translate into Spencer desiring him like he desired Spencer? Or were those letters merely Spencer giving him encouragement and expressing admiration for his former superior? 

Surely, that train of thought caused Aaron to tack on the pathetic, “I’m not the person you make me out to be in those letters. I’m a failure.”

Spencer grabbed his hand a squeezed tightly. "You're not a failure," he said fiercely. "You're _not_."

Startled, Aaron looked up at was stunned by the intensity in Spencer's eyes. He didn't deserve this man's loyalty. He said as much aloud.

Spencer slammed his hand on the table, shocking Aaron out of his self-pitying stupor. He met Spencer's gaze. He’d never seen the younger man display such anger. Spencer then leaned in, his eyes blazing. "Yes, you most certainly deserve my loyalty! I can spend the rest of this evening and into the morning listing all the reasons why. Do you really want me to do that?"

"No," he whispered, because he'd certainly die of embarrassment. 

Yet, as quick as the emotions rolled up in Spencer's features, they receded. Spencer leaned back in his chair, releasing Aaron's hand. Aaron swallowed the pathetic whimper at the loss of contact. 

Silence stretched between them. There was so much that could be said, so much to be said. Spencer didn’t demonize Haley, which is what any number of men would have done. He didn’t ask why Aaron wasn’t confronting Haley about her affair. It wasn’t what Aaron was expecting which, oddly enough, was relieving. 

Spencer listened. 

And then Aaron remembered the younger man’s comment about how people told him secrets all the time. Spencer concluded the reason they did was because he didn’t have anyone to tell them to. Yet Aaron wondered if it was because Spencer simply _listened_.

Finally, Spencer cleared his throat and asked, "Did you have a chance to read the updated treatise on the injustice collectors that I sent you?"

_I wrote a counterargument at three in the morning after dreaming Adrian Bale strapped that bomb around your neck instead of some guy off the street,_ Aaron wanted to confess. Instead he opted for the more neutral, "Yes. But I have to disagree with how you defined nobility." 

Discussing the Job was safe. It was easy. It relaxed him. Discussing the Job meant he could put his troubles at home aside.

Aaron reached for his glass of wine as he began, "Classic nobility …"

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from New York City. It's nice to see the city from the perspective of a tourist, not as an agent, although I do miss the private jet …
> 
> … I propose there may be a different breed of injustice collector, one who kills on the behalf of a victim. What if the victim allows these injustices in the misguided belief that he deserves them? That these beliefs keep him from extracting revenge in some manner? 
> 
> Does this make the perpetrator an 'injustice collector by proxy' since he is not necessarily doing this to gain the affection for the victim, but to avenge the wrongs against him? Or am I simply obsessed with creating a new designation when I should call it vigilantism and be done with it? …
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

"Providence, Rhode Island," JJ announced as she walked into conference room and began passing out folders. "Two double homicides, both with the same MO." She grabbed the clicker. "The first victims are Billy Malloy and Meri Peyton." Two pictures flashed on the screen. Malloy had blonde hair and blue eyes while Peyton was a brunette with brown eyes. Both looked fit. "They were found in Malloy's townhouse naked and bound in the missionary position."

"That's one memorable way to go," Morgan muttered. 

"Cause of death for all is carbon monoxide poisoning but the coroner says the bodies were positioned and tied post-mortem which is why we got the call," JJ continued. "The second couple—Drew Nimms and Lyssa Berton—were found three days later, found the exact same way." Nimms was dark haired and dark eyed, while Berton was a redhead with green eyes.

"Any connection between the two sets of victims?"

"Malloy and Nimms were both in the banking industry, Malloy a loan officer and Nimms a mortgage specialist. They worked for competing banks," JJ answered. "Peyton was a real estate agent and Berton a property appraiser. Peyton and Berton were married … but not to Malloy or Nimms."

“There are no defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Initial tox reports are negative.” Morgan shook his head. “Both couples had sex, but there is nothing to indicate that it wasn’t consensual.”

"If it wasn't for the fact that of the post-mortem positioning," Gideon began, "these could be accidental deaths. The report says the homes are older, not in disrepair but both furnaces are gas. There were no signs of forced entry in either home.”

"The UnSub wanted the police to make the connection," Hotch said as he went back to the beginning on the file. He remembered Reid's discourse about the differences in how women and men kill, how women aren't as messy. Reid dedicated a full page to it in his letter four weeks ago. It was the reason Hotch said, "He or she wanted to make sure that this wasn't treated as accidental."

Griffith shook her head. "This seems almost too subtle. What’s the purpose?"

"Bringing their sins to light," Hotch answered. He glanced at his watch. "Wheels up in thirty."

_~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Pasadena, California … 
> 
> … Admittedly, it is odd interviewing for a professorship at CalTech instead of that as a potential graduate student. As a student, it was much easier. Then again, I was fifteen and, well, I'm sure they took that into consideration …
> 
> … Thank you for your insights on entitlement as it relates to an injustice collector; it was an angle I had not thought to explore. 
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~_

“I think the Hand Man started in Panama City, Florida,” JJ announced as she walked into Hotch’s office.

While the BAU actively discouraged the practice of naming an UnSub by local police and media, they did not follow the rule around the office. It was just easier to say, "I've got new info on the Provo Panty Man" than "I've got new info on the UnSub who rapes out-of-state female students in their third year at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah and takes their underwear as a trophy." 

The UnSub who targeted abusive alcoholic lawyers and mutilated the victims' right hand was referred to as "The Hand Man." It wasn't terribly original, but it worked.

Their first encounter with the UnSub had been in Memphis. They waited seven days after the second victim was discovered—the initial killings were five days apart—before leaving the PD with a profile. The few leads they had failed to pan out and were forced to move on. 

It didn’t mean they gave up, no matter what the local media or the local police thought.

JJ held out the folder. "Same type of victim, same MO."

Hotch took the file and began paging through it. “Did this just come in?”

“The victim was murdered ten months ago.” She made a frustrated noise and then fidgeted. “It’s been on my desk for three,” she admitted, shame clear in her voice. “Detective Salez sent it in after the Memphis case went national. He saw the similarities: drunk corporate lawyer beaten to death. The victim was married but definitely not monogamous. We didn’t release the details about the baseball bat as the weapon or the right hand being mutilated, but Salez’s victim matches perfectly." She took a deep breath. “Hotch, I am so sorry about …”

“You’re not a media liaison anymore, JJ,” he interrupted softly because he knew she’d already mentally berated herself the moment she discovered the file. “You’re a profiler, just like the rest of us, and we all have stacks of folders on our desks.”

“I help select the cases,” she reminded him tersely.

“As do Garcia and I.” He knew she wasn’t going to forgive herself any time soon, but he waited until she gave him a token nod of acceptance. He closed the file and leaned forward. “How do you think this changes the profile?”

JJ blinked and then tilted her head a little. “The Hand Man travels.”

“What is the distance between Panama City and Memphis?”

“I’m not _Reid_ , Hotch.” 

“Fair enough.” He opened his side drawer and pulled out his well-worn atlas. He flipped to the pages that featured the southeast quarter of the United States. “The Hand Man would have to go through Mississippi and Alabama—maybe Louisiana but unlikely—before arriving in Memphis. He put distance between his kills.” 

He turned the map towards her. She glanced at it, eyebrow raised. 

“You said the lead detective sent us the file after hearing about the Memphis victims,” Hotch added. “It’s quite possible that a Panama City detective may have gotten too close when canvassing, causing the UnSub to panic and flee the city. The months in between kills could be for a variety of reasons. Maybe the Panama City victim,” he flipped open the file and found the name, “Nick Spaeth, was the UnSub’s intended target. But the UnSub is now in a new city and something triggers him … he goes after Baysworth and Wagner.”

JJ pressed her lips together. “All three had court appearances. We already ruled out the court staff in Memphis … but maybe that’s how he finds his victims. He’s a courtroom observer. Baysworth and Wagner made the news after their arrests. Spaeth did as well.”

“We already hypothesized that the UnSub more than likely attended the initial court proceedings, perhaps reliving his own experiences.” Hotch leaned back in his chair. “Yes, the new information does affect the profile. It means our UnSub’s learning curve was in the Panama City-area, which explains why we weren’t able to find any prior victims in Memphis. But JJ …” he paused until she looked at him, “you didn’t intentionally ignore this file. We all miss things, even when they’re right in front of us.”

_~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from San Jose, California. 
> 
> … I’m disappointed that you turned down my request for you to be listed as co-author on the injustice collector paper. You should be recognized for your contributions to this treatise. I will abide by your wishes but I do hope you reconsider. It has been an honor and privilege to work with you on this, and I hope we can collaborate on future projects.
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~~_

Back-to-back cases were always brutal, especially when it kept the team out in the field for nearly three weeks. There was a time when Aaron would call Haley at least twice a day—morning and evening, usually—but that little tradition had stopped almost two years ago. Now, he called when he remembered, but usually got Haley’s voice mail. She would acknowledge it with a text message, but rarely called him back. 

The flight from San Francisco had been especially difficult; turbulence made for an uncomfortable ride. When Aaron arrived home, Haley barely acknowledged him. She pointed to the mail and then stormed up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. He had missed his nephew's birthday party—the child was only a year old so the lavish celebration was more about one-upmanship between mommies than anything else—and Haley had to endure questioning from her in-laws and friends about why she and Aaron hadn't started a family yet. 

Clearly, he was not invited to share her bed. Haley refused to open the door despite Aaron's pleas to talk and his apologies for missing the party. She screamed at him to stop his 'FBI negotiator tricks' and told him to sleep on the couch because she couldn't stand to be on the same floor as him.

Perhaps that was why he dialed the number to Spencer's answering service; he was desperate to hear a friendly voice. He’d called Spencer before, but it had always been to discuss the drafts of the injustice collector treatise. Those conversations had focused solely on the paper; Aaron refused to discuss anything more personal and, thankfully, Spencer never pushed. The last time they had spoken on the phone had been when Aaron turned down the offer of co-authorship. He didn’t feel right taking credit for something he simply advised on.

Yet tonight? There was no new draft or letters from Spencer. Aaron had no excuse to call except that he was desperate for a friendly voice. His message to Spencer was simple: _Call me on my cell when you get this. I don't care about the time zone._ If Spencer called while Aaron was at work? Well, a private office was one of the few perks of being the unit chief.

Aaron sat on the family room couch and was flicking through the cable channels when his phone buzzed. He almost didn't answer because he didn't recognize the area code. However, Spencer didn't own a cell phone and there was no telling where the former agent was on any given day.

"Hotchner," he answered as he muted the TV.

"Good evening, Aaron," Spencer greeted, voice warm and inviting.

Aaron let out a long breath as he said, "Spencer. Thanks for calling."

"Bad case?"

He choked out a sharp laugh. He rubbed his eyes. It was the question Haley should have asked him when he walked in the door. Mindful of Bureau rules, Aaron lamented, "Something like that."

"You don't have to explain," Spencer told him and immediately, Aaron remembered the conversation in Savannah when Spencer said the same thing.

"I just …" Aaron faltered, humiliation and embarrassment welling up in him. "I just needed to hear a friendly voice."

"I'm here for you, Aaron," Spencer said softly.

"I know." He fiddled with the crease in his sweatpants. "Where are you tonight?"

"Kalamazoo, Michigan."

"Which university?" because schools were still chasing after the three-time doctorate and former member of the BAU. He knew that Spencer interviewed at all of the Ancient Eight and was still undecided on where to commit to. 

"Oh, University of Michigan gave a tour yesterday but it's not really my type of campus," Spencer told him. "I came to Kalamazoo because I liked the way the name sounded."

Aaron closed his eyes. The confession pushed out of his mouth before he could really think. "I wish I had that freedom."

“You know, you could always join me.”

Aaron let out a sharp laugh, unwilling to say the obvious retort, _If I have time off, you know damn well I’m expected to be home with Haley and not gallivanting around with my former colleague._ Instead, he said, “Maybe one of these days.”

"Are you okay?"

"Just tired." Aaron shifted until he was comfortable on the cushions. He rubbed his growing erection, wondering why he was even considering jerking off to the sound of Spencer's voice. Surely, the younger man would be mortified if he knew. 

_But Spencer won’t know, will he?_ his mind cajoled. _You imagine his voice when you’re beating off. Why not do it to the real thing?_

It was why he blurted softly, "Will you tell me about something? Anything? I don't want hear my own thoughts."

"The impact of John Harvey Kellogg on the medical industry in the early 1900's?"

"That works," Aaron replied as he slipped his hand to his cock. He knew he'd have to hit the 'mute' button when he got close but he didn't care. "Tell me about it."

~~~~~~~


	6. Chapter 6

_~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from St. Louis, Missouri.
> 
> … I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation the other night. You're always willing to engage me in conversation when others seem to be fearful or bored with the subjects I choose …
> 
> Please don't hesitate to call. 
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~_

Spencer Reid's return to the BAU as a civilian wasn't met with much fanfare. Garcia and JJ fussed over him, of course, and Morgan did to a lesser extent. Griffith was out on a custodial, so there wasn’t that potentially awkward standoff between Spencer and his replacement. The other agents who had known Spencer during his short tenure greeted him coolly, but had that air about them which conveyed: _You couldn't handle the pressure_. 

Aaron watched as the younger man and Gideon interacted. There was muted hostility on both sides; the mentor-protégé relationship they had nurtured was long gone. Garcia, Morgan and JJ were genuinely surprised at Spencer's transformation from awkward to confident, and they piled on the compliments about Spencer's upgraded fashion sense. 

Aaron had coffee waiting for Spencer by the time the younger man made it to his office. He set the mugs on the coffee table before gesturing Spencer inside and closing the door behind them. Once in privacy, Spencer smiled warmly and said, "Good seeing you, Aaron."

They embraced. Aaron tried his best not to hold on too long—God, he hadn't realized how desperate he'd become for that contact—and resisted the urge to brush his lips against Spencer's cheek. He did wonder what prompted the former agent to show up at the BAU and he asked as much as walked over to the coffee table and handed the beverage to his guest. It had been six weeks since the Kalamazoo conversation, and since then, Aaron’s personal life had been upended. 

Spencer took the coffee and settled on the leather couch. Aaron took the chair and warmed his hands with his own cup of brew. 

"I called Haley this morning to see if I could take you both out to dinner while I was in town," Spencer stated quietly, gently almost, and avoiding Hotch’s original question. "She declined but then told me that I should ask you myself. She said … she said you were living here now." He looked up, concern clear in his features. "I wasn't sure if that was metaphorically or not."

Aaron sighed. He wasn't prepared to talk about his personal life at the office, but he knew he had to say something to Spencer. "I spend a lot of time here, it's true."

"Do you spend the night here?"

He glared at the audacity of the question, but Spencer seemed unafraid. Aaron refused to answer, the admission too raw.

Spencer stared at him for a moment before tilting his head as if in acknowledgement. "Fair enough."

Relieved that he (temporarily) escaped the discussion (he knew Spencer would come back to it eventually), Aaron asked "What brings you to the BAU, though? You could have called."

The younger man shrugged. "I know, but we haven’t spoken to each other since I was in Kalamazoo. I needed to see how you were doing. I know you worry about me, but I do worry about you as well."

Aaron nodded, warmed by the sentiment. "You weren't up to tracking me down at the Y."

"That … and White Collar offered me a position in their department," Spencer told him. "I've always found paperwork meditative."

"Are you going to take it?" Aaron asked, hoping to God he sounded neutral. Having Spencer back at the Bureau, even in different department, would be … it would be … hazardous. He had no clue if he could stave off temptation with the object of his affection within such close proximity. And what would he do without those letters? The letters that made him feel worthy of someone's attention and admiration. Without those, how would Aaron get through the day?

Spencer gave a coy smile. "I don't know if I'm ready to settle down yet. All this traveling? It's given me a sense of freedom that I never had before."

"You interviewed at the Ancient Eight, then CalTech," Aaron said. "Michigan, Virginia Tech, UMass, MIT, and Georgetown, too."

The younger man stared at him in surprise. "You remember where I had interviews?"

He swallowed and fiddled with his coffee mug. "I couldn't sleep one night so I came up with a chart with the schools you listed and the odds that you would accept a posting at each one."

"Really?" Spencer beamed. "Which is your pick?"

"Harvard. You conquered CalTech as a grad student, so it was the next logical choice," Aaron answered as he met Spencer's gaze. "You also once said that Harvard was your safety school."

"I would love to see your chart," Spencer told him, although he didn't confirm Aaron's guess. "I'm curious to see what other parameters you used."

A knock at the door prevented Aaron from answering. JJ opened the door and stepped in. "Sorry to interrupt but Garcia is insisting we all go down to the Auld Dubliner for a round of drinks. It's after five and she's threatening credit scores if she doesn't get her way."

Spencer smiled. "Sure." 

Aaron only nodded so JJ said, "We're leaving in fifteen," before closing the door.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Spencer ventured, "You're not calling Haley to tell her you're going to be late."

He grimaced as he stared at the floor, hating that Spencer wasn’t backing off of the topic. Shame rushed through him. There were plenty of explanations he could give, but there was only one honest one and the one he couldn’t give before. "It's a trial separation."

Spencer leaned forward and covered Aaron's hands. His thumb caressed Aaron's wrist, causing Aaron to bite back a groan as a shiver raced down his spine. 

_His touch is just like you remember,_ Aaron’s mind whispered. _Just like in your fantasies._ He stared at their hands and nearly missed Spencer’s next quiet statement.

"You haven't told the team."

He swallowed hard. "I don't know what they know," he admitted. "They haven't asked and I haven't said anything."

"You moved out." Blunt. Astute. Very much like the first time Spencer saw the problems with Hotch’s marriage and asked him about it.

"It was easier for me to leave than her," Aaron explained, wondering if Spencer’s hands on his gave him the courage to admit the truth. "I'm closer to the office now. I've had my mail forwarded to a post office box. I've received all your letters,” because he didn’t want Spencer to worry about that.

"We don't have to go out tonight," Spencer told him. "We can …"

"Morgan, JJ and Garcia are your friends, too," he interrupted, because the last thing he wanted was Spencer dissecting his relationship. _That’s not the whole truth,_ his mind chided. _You don’t trust yourself alone with him. You’d test your theory that Spencer’s physical affection and compliments are, in fact, his way of seducing you …_ He took a deep breath, still staring at their hands. He hated his next words, but he had to say them. 

He had to.

"They miss you and it's not just because they used to pawn off their paperwork on you."

The younger man didn't respond to the statement, but squeezed his hands once before withdrawing them. His voice was soft and gentle as ever. "Will you give me your new address?"

"Of course."

~~~~~~~~~~

The evening at the Auld Dubliner was filled with good-natured teasing and drinks. Gideon didn't join them but no one was really surprised. Soon, the war stories started and Aaron could tell that Morgan, JJ and Garcia were thrilled that Spencer still kept up with their cases. 

When ten rolled around, they all agreed to call it a night. Since Spencer had taken a taxi for his visit to the Bureau (he avoided any mention of interviewing for White Collar crimes), Spencer rode with Aaron to the bar; Aaron offered him a ride home.

The drive to Spencer's apartment was spent in comfortable silence. Aaron had only been there twice, after the Dowd and Garner cases. "Please, come up for a drink," Spencer told him.

"It's late," Aaron automatically replied. His desperation for Spencer's company made him leery of being alone with the man. 

"I know." 

Aaron hoped to God that the man didn't hear him gulp. _Holy Christ, is he …? No … he's offering to listen. Offering to listen to you because that's what he does … he's not … No. You're reading too much into his body language and those damn letters._

Spencer tacked on, "I'm worried about you, Aaron." 

And, God help him, Aaron had no defense to that.

It was why Aaron ended up sitting on Spencer's lumpy couch in his sparse studio, drinking a glass of his favorite bourbon. 

Spencer settled across from him in the mismatched armchair. "I really am sorry about your marriage."

"So am I."

"Is she, ah, still receiving investment advice from Rick?"

Aaron twitched then took a healthy swig. "It's Trent from the health club now." 

"Do you address that during your counseling sessions?"

"She claims that they're 'just friends' and he's a 'compassionate listener' and 'there when she needs him,'" he spat bitterly, doing air quotes as he spoke. "She compares him to JJ and Griffith—Beth Griffith, she joined the team after you left but was out on a custodial today—but I've never …" He took another drink. "I've never crossed that boundary with a member of my team, or anyone for that matter." 

For a moment, nothing was said. Spencer finally said, "You're too noble."

"Nobility has nothing to do with it," he muttered and looked away. 

"And if the opportunity were right there?" Spencer leaned forward, yet didn't reach out to Aaron. "Would you take advantage of it?"

Aaron closed his eyes because he couldn't bear to see Spencer's reaction to his next statement. Aaron was desperate for companionship, desperate for understanding, and desperate for his interpretations of Spencer's letters and body language to be correct. If he was wrong, it would show on Spencer's face and he'd rather live with his fantasy Spencer than one who rejected him. And there was still that matter of his marital vows.

"I would want to, yes. But it's …" He let out a harsh breath. There. He said it. "It's still adultery."

"Then it has everything to do with nobility."

The sincerity of the words made Aaron shiver as shame surged through him. He certainly talked a good game of being the pious, innocent husband of a cheating wife, but in reality? He'd graduated to finger fucking himself, pretending that it was this man because jerking off wasn’t enough sometimes. He fantasized about Spencer living with him and teaching at Georgetown while Aaron continued with the Bureau. He dreamed about boarding that Amtrak train with Spencer and stopping at oddly named cities because they had the freedom to do so.

Aaron wondered what would happen if he brushed his lips against Spencer's. Would Spencer kiss him back? Or would he ruin everything by making that move?

He knew he could drive himself mad if he kept focusing on that possibility, so he hastily changed the subject with the absolutely pathetic question of, "How long are you in town?" 

"I have to leave early tomorrow," Spencer replied as he settled back on the cushions. "University of Pennsylvania." When Aaron opened his eyes and met the man's gaze, Spencer added defensively, "I'm not stringing them along. UPenn's offer is for a position at their Cartographic Modeling Lab. Totally different than Cornell or Brown." 

"I'm not judging you," Aaron assured him. "It's just … you’re lucky to have that many opportunities."

"All this travel has given me a chance to really think. I was groomed to be a profiler since Gideon showed up on CalTech's campus for a recruitment lecture. Profiling became the goal of everything I did, the doctorates I obtained. All to better understand the criminal mind. Now? I guess I'm finally allowing myself to explore what else is out there."

"There's no harm in that," Aaron told him earnestly. He did understand Spencer's need. Growing up, Aaron was expected to be a defense attorney and eventually hold political office. His first rebellion was to take a position with the prosecutor's office and was completed by joining the FBI. "I did the same thing. With a lot less the wanderlust, though."

"I've always wondered about the lawyer-turned-agent."

Aaron didn't want to go down that path of discussion, so he asked other question that had been nagging him: "How do you afford traveling? The Bureau didn't pay all that much and I know you pay your mom's medical bills."

"Professional poker player," Spencer announced with a little flourish. "Serious poker players are actually really good mathematicians. Those who play for a living depend heavily on statistics such as expected value, preflop raise percentage, call percentage, and fold percentage.”

“I thought you were banned from the casinos.”

“A few in Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump,” he grinned. “But here’s the thing: everyone counts cards. You can't really survive unless you figure out how. Apparently it’s pretty much expected in tournaments. I also play at the levels I know I can beat."

Aaron laughed. "So I won't be seeing you on the World Series of Poker."

"Unlikely." His grin turned wicked. "It's not that I can't beat them. I just prefer a quieter life."

"I would love to watch you play."

"I think that would be grand."

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Rising Sun, Indiana ...
> 
> … I thought about your comment regarding my meetings with academic institutions. In retrospect, I can see how the multiple interviews at the various universities may have been seen as bolstering my ego. I admit that part of the exercise became merely to see who thought I was the most valuable since I had tunnel-vision regarding my initial career choice. Therefore, I have suspended the interview process …
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~~_

"Wow. Karma's a bitch," JJ muttered as she scrolled through her Blackberry. 

Hotch looked up, surprised at her comment. They were sitting across from each other on the way back from a case in Pueblo, Colorado. Curious, he asked, "How so?" 

She shook her head and set her phone down. "Remember Tim Larison? The reporter from the network affiliate in Mobile who tipped off the raid on the child pornography ring?"

God, that case had been a disaster. Thanks to Larison’s desire to get “the big scoop,” the eight suspects packed up their wares and went off the grid before Hotch’s team could execute the warrant. When Hotch confronted Larison, the man was unapologetic. Larison took it a step further, openly mocking Hotch during the press conference afterwards. 

Hotch recalled Spencer's words in a letter he received shortly after the case. The former agent frothed for an entire page, congratulating Hotch for having the reporter brought up on obstruction charges. Unfortunately, the DA felt that Hotch had gone overboard and dismissed it.

Hotch now asked, "What about him?"

"Arrested for child pornography," JJ told him. 

He stared, knowing his mouth dropped open a bit. "Really."

"Really." 

"Let me guess – he's accusing us of setting him up."

"His lawyer, actually," she told him. "The presiding judge put a gag order on the case, but … Larison isn't well-liked by his peers so information is, well … let's put it this way. The fact that he has an online kiddie porn account that dates back five years is now public knowledge."

"Goes to motivation," the former prosecutor in Hotch blurted quietly. Did Larison honestly think that he would never be caught? He then weighed the odds of Larison giving up his sources. "They can add those obstruction charges back in to the mix."

"Still a lawyer," she teased.

"Definitely."

~~~~~~~~


	7. Chapter 7

_~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from Jacksonville, Florida ...
> 
> … I still believe that you should be listed as co-author on our injustice collectors by proxy treatise, especially given how much inspiration and input you have given me …
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~_

Hotch was used to being the only one in the office after seven in the evening. Sure, rookies were eager to show off their dedication by trying to work the same office hours as the unit chief, but they usually stopping after their second month. That was when the nightmares usually kicked in, which prompted a senior agent to pull said rookie aside and give the “don’t burn the candle at both ends” speech.

There were days when Hotch wished someone would pull him aside and give _him_ the speech again. Sure, there were fewer distractions in the early mornings and late evenings and Hotch did get a lot done, but those extra hours meant that he had nothing to go home to. His sparsely-furnished apartment was depressing and a testament to his failed marriage. The only nights it was bearable was when he received a new letter from Spencer.

Other than that? It was unbearably lonely. It was only natural that he dreamed almost exclusively of Spencer, nightmares running dead-even with highly erotic dreams. It was only natural that he called Spencer’s answering service on the days he received those coveted letters, eager to discuss the latest topics or whatever direction Spencer wanted to take the conversation. 

He glanced at the calendar, disappointed that it would be another three days until he would probably receive a letter. He wondered which one he would reread tonight, which one he would write a counterargument to, or which draft of the injustice collectors treatise he would review again … 

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear his name being called until Garcia thumped his desk and nearly shouted, “Hotch!”

He jumped, his pen flying out of his hand.

Garcia took a step back, hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, Hotch, but you were zoned out…”

“It’s okay,” he told her before checking his watch. It was embarrassing to be caught daydreaming, but he knew Garcia wouldn't tell anyone. Still, he noted the time and grew concerned. "It’s after eight ….”

“Yeah, but the police chief from Savannah started faxing this an hour ago,” she interrupted and then held out the file she had tucked under her arm. “It looks like our Hand Man has added to Savannah to his tour of the Southern US. The Savannah Slasher’s daddy was found dead this morning.”

Hotch frowned as he took the file. “Chief Presser called you directly?”

“He heard about the Memphis case and with this involving Marcheon …” Garcia shrugged. “He described the case, so I asked him to send what he had over. Do you have any idea how slow his fax machine is?”

Hotch flipped through the pages, wincing at the poor resolution. The basics of the case were exactly like those in Memphis and Panama City: Craig Marcheon Senior was beaten to death, his right hand mutilated. Medics on the scene described strong smell of booze. Full toxicology reports were due in four days but the initial assessment was a high BAC.

Marcheon Senior was a lawyer, alcoholic, and child abuser. A perfect fit for the Hand Man’s victimology.

“When Sleezy Senior didn’t show up for court this morning, they started the search,” Garcia continued. “He and the missus are splitsville and she got the house, which is why he wasn’t reporting missing earlier. Pressler checked with Marcheon’s current honey and they haven’t done the rompy-romp in over a week.”

“The UnSub wouldn’t have had to do much research,” Hotch commented, almost to himself. “Details about the Marcheons’ private lives went public after we arrested Junior.” 

He then thought back to the Memphis crimes, how there were two killings were five days apart. If the Hand Man held to the same pattern, then they had less than four days before the UnSub struck again. 

“Recall the team,” he said. “We’re heading back to Savannah.”

~~~~~~~

Unless the Hand Man decided to take a third victim, they arrived too late. Because when Hotch and the Team got to the Savannah police station, they were greeted by Chief Presser who told them about the apparent _first_ victim.

The first victim who had been murdered three days before Marcheon, but the body wasn’t discovered after they found Marcheon’s.

“He’s escalating,” Gideon declared as he rounded the table in the room that Presser had already set up for them at the station. JJ and Griffith followed and settled in to the chairs, Griffith booting her laptop. “He’s got a taste for this now. He’s got his mission.” 

“So the time between the cities is what he needs to stalk his victims,” JJ proposed.

Morgan hung back by the door. “The UnSub showed a hell of a lot more rage when dealing with Marcheon than he did with his previous four victims. With Marcheon, it was definitely overkill. I mean, the other vics were beaten pretty badly, but Marcheon? You gotta admit that the UnSub reached a whole new level.”

Hotch considered the statements and mentally compared the victims before nodding in agreement. “Marcheon’s son was acquitted of murder,” Hotch replied. “That could account for some of it. Not only did Marcheon get out of multiple DUIs, but his son was acquitted.”

“Panama City … Memphis … Savannah,” Morgan continued, arms crossed over his chest. “There’s got to be a reason the UnSub’s traveling, unless Marcheon was his ultimate target.”

"If it's in retaliation for the acquittal, it doesn't make sense. It's been over a year since the first victim in Panama City," Hotch argued. "Junior wasn't acquitted until four months ago. I'm positive it influenced the UnSub, but I don't think Marcheon was his ultimate goal. The timing isn’t right."

"Okay ... So our UnSub wants attention then,” JJ suggested, “and lots of it. Marcheon's a high profile target only because of Junior and the acquittal. The UnSub knows that by taking out Marcheon, the media is going be all over this _plus_ the BAU would be called back out."

“Which could mean there will be a third victim,” Gideon declared as he stared at the timeline the Savannah PD had written. His annoyance was clear as he added, “He’s taunting us. ‘Look at me! Catch me if you can.’ He wants his moment of glory.”

“We originally profiled him as living with his father or forced to take care of him in some capacity,” Hotch thought aloud. "We know that’s not the case now. He's independently wealthy or a skilled drifter. Maybe he's living off a trust fund? Or he works in a job that has him to staying in a city for weeks at a time before moving on to the next location.”

"That covers the stalking aspect. He has to take time to find the right fit for his victimology. There's a lot of research going into this. The parameters are so specific,” Griffith stated as she tapped on her laptop. “I’ll ask Garcia for a list of employers who do business in those cities as well as those whose employees either transferred from city to city or the job requires them to spend time in those areas."

"He's smarter than we originally profiled him.” JJ sat down next to Griffith and picked up a file. "We know this guy is patient and disciplined. He has a way to earn these victims' trust to get them secluded." 

"He's also more charismatic that we initially gave him credit for," Gideon added as he gestured towards the board. “Presser’s crew interviewed the bartender and the regulars from the bar Marcheon was last seen at. No one befriended the victim over the past few weeks. Marcheon didn’t leave with a date either. The bartender also said in the years Marcheon was a patron, the man never answered his mobile phone while at the bar. Marcheon always made a big point of turning it off.”

“So much for the pretty lady luring them out,” Morgan said.

"There are also forensic countermeasures but it's not overboard,” JJ observed. “These crime scenes could have been scrubbed clean, but they're not. It's like he's trying to throw us off about how much he knows by not doing enough." 

"Like you said, Hotch. This guy wants attention. He wants our attention and by choosing Marcheon, he knew we would be back out here." Morgan paced. "He also knows where to dump a body where whatever he does leave behind is inconclusive. But … he leaves a signature. He wants us to acknowledge what he did.”

"Okay, so he's studied what we do, how we do it," Griffith continued the train of thought. "This isn't someone taking crib notes from a TV series. He has practical knowledge but he’s not a cop. His crime scenes don’t read like a cop’s, if that makes sense. They read like a crime scene description from case files."

"Huh. So... Involved with law enforcement in some capacity, but not in the field. The targeting of lawyers... It could mean a lot of things, but what if he's also punishing them for something he failed at? Public defender? Family law practitioner who became disillusioned maybe?" Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. "Dad's a typical over-achiever, son takes up the family profession, but the son fails."

"Disbarred, possibly for inappropriate conduct," Hotch proposed. "Public defenders and family lawyers would have access to some of the court documents. This isn't like the clerk reporter turned vigilante in New York. But … how would he get that kind of personal access so quickly in so many cities? He can't be legitimately practicing law in all these states. Sure, many have reciprocal agreements for the bar exam, but to maintain credentials? It would be incredibly difficult. 

“A temp?” Griffith guessed.

"Unlikely,” Gideon said dismissively. “The UnSub isn’t going to risk publicizing his failures as a lawyer, but he has too much pride to get a fake identity.”

“I agree he wouldn’t go near a law firm, but he _has_ to have flexibility when working.” Griffith looked up from her computer screen. “But don’t all our vics have specific watering holes they frequent? What about kitchen help? Bussers? Someone who isn’t going to stand out and their job has high turnover.”

Hotch nodded as he took the chair next to Griffith. “Our UnSub isn’t going to be on the payroll. He’s the guy whom they pay under the table.”

Morgan’s phone rang and he answered it with, “You’re on speaker, Baby Girl.”

“I just found a twist worthy of early M. Night Shyamalan,” Garcia declared, her voice filling the room. “Turns out that there’s video footage from the parking lot of the last bar that the first Savannah victim, Mister Brightwell, was known to be at. And … drum roll please … someone helps him to his car.”

“The Good Samaritan Ruse,” JJ immediately said. “The UnSub offers to drive the victim home in order to avoid a DUI.”

“Very good, my sugar plum. And that Samaritan, my pretties?” Garcia paused dramatically. “Is a woman.”

~~~~~~~~~~

They went through the video footage repeatedly, throwing out theories that ranged from vengeful woman to a male/female team to a man in woman's clothing. They were desperate for _some_ type of lead, no matter how small and this was the first significant piece they had.

Yet peering at the video for the twelfth time, Hotch had a feeling it was a dead end. Brightwell didn't really wobble out the bar door; he was completely steady on his feet until he tripped and fell to his knees. A tall, svelte woman was walking past the bar's parking lot when Brightwell went down, and she rushed from the sidewalk to Brightwell. Brightwell tried to brush her off, obviously embarrassed by his clumsiness, but she helped him to his feet and over to his car.

There was nothing suggestive in her body language, no tilt of the shoulder or leaning over to show off her B-cup cleavage. Brightwell didn't act interested either. He didn't grab her ass, leer at her boobs, or seem to make any attempt at conversation other than to try to shoo her away once to his car. There were no exchanges of goodbye waves. The woman simply turned on heel—make that _flats_ —and walked back to the sidewalk, and continued on her way.

"She takes public transportation," Hotch said tiredly. "If she were trying to seduce him, she'd been wearing heels."

"She's like, six-foot something," JJ shook her head. "Heels would have made her way taller than Brightwell's five-eight. Brightwell doesn't strike me the type to like having a woman looming over him. Look how short his wife is."

"Body language," he reminded them, because he knew that when a profiler was desperate for some kind of lead, the small things got overlooked. "Look at the body language. Brightwell isn't interested. Our UnSub would have the discipline to not appear interested, but our victim doesn't."

"Hotch is right," Gideon agreed as he picked up the victim’s cell phone in the evidence bag. "Brightwell keeps his mistresses' pictures and full contact info on his unlocked mobile. He doesn't make the effort to hide them. He's arrogant and needs the constant reassurance of his sexual prowess."

"I know this is the first break that we had in this case," Hotch told them, ignoring this disgruntled looks he was getting because they knew what he was going to say next, "but I don't think it's going to get us any closer to catching this UnSub. She's doesn't show up in the surveillance footage in Panama City or our second Memphis victim."

"We need to go back and retrace the final weeks of each of our victims," Gideon added. "We'll find something there.” The senior profiler gave his sharp, confident smile. “I'm sure of it."

~~~~~~~~~~


	8. Chapter 8

_~~~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dear Aaron,
> 
> I bid you greetings from New Orleans ...
> 
> I followed the Marcheon Senior case. I feel no sadness or remorse for his death or the manner in which it happened. It was interesting that Chief Pressler was overhead saying, “At least some justice has been served," regarding Senior's death.
> 
> … That reporter, Travers, was clearly desperate to make a name for himself. I know that allowing Travers' attacks must have been part of your media strategy, but it pained me to watch his unmitigated accusations go unanswered. If I had been at your side, I would have not been able to hold my tongue. …
> 
> Affectionately yours, as always,  
>  Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~~~_

The team stayed in Savannah searching for the Hand Man for two weeks but made no progress. Being recalled to Quantico by Strauss was particularly frustrating for Hotch because he believed if they only had a few more days, they’d be able to find _something_. Maybe the woman from the parking lot would finally come forward …

Strauss took no prisoners as she berated Hotch about how he handled the press in the Marcheon case. She also took him to task for not sending in another team given the circumstances. His explanation that it was his team who handled the Hand Man case—God, that name hadn't gone over well—was met with the icy rebuttal that he'd gotten too close.

Hotch passionately defended his team, but knew that he was Strauss’ true target. He was a direct threat to her advancement in the Bureau, and his failures—real and perceived—were steadily adding up.

The deaths at the hands of Adrian Bale. 

The security breach by Randall Garner. 

The acquittal of Marcheon Junior.

The escape by Breitkopf. 

The resignations of two excellent agents four weeks apart.

The constant, brutal allegations by the press who gleefully enumerated the BAU’s failures.

All of which were perfect ammunition to demote or fire him.

Yet on this morning, a day after returning from Savannah, Hotch didn’t care. 

Why?

Because he was served papers that morning. 

Papers he’d been expecting for quite some time.

Papers that caused him to emotionally shut down the moment he opened the envelope and saw that they weren’t some run-of-the-mill subpoena.

Papers that proved just what a failure he was.

“… not be considered a formal suspension only if you take this afternoon and Friday as unpaid leave,” Strauss told him imperiously. “You will return to the office on Monday. If a case comes up over the next four days, you are ordered not to participate in any manner. Doing so will be considered a violation of orders and will result in further disciplinary actions. Is that clear, Agent Hotchner?” 

For a split-second, Hotch wondered how that was supposed to be punishment—maybe she knew about the papers and she was using the recent mistakes as a way to give him time off—but then he saw the glint in her eyes.

It was a power play, plain and simple. 

He acknowledged her statement with a meek, “Yes, ma’am.”

If she was surprised that he didn’t argue vigorously, she didn’t show it. Instead, she dismissed him with the chilly authority of a cruel victor. 

Hotch went back to his office. He sent an email to Gideon, relaying Strauss’s orders. He packed up his laptop, a few case files, and the envelope he’d been served. 

No one spoke to him on his way out.

He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pages were crisp and neatly stapled.

_SUPREME COURT STATE OF VIRGINIA  
COUNTY OF Fairfax  
MARITAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT  
THIS AGREEMENT made and entered into this 19 day of April 2008, between Haley Hotchner (wife) and Aaron Hotchner (husband)…_

Aaron couldn’t read past “husband.”

He tried.

He wanted to say he was stuck on their names, surprised that his full legal name wasn’t listed and that hers wasn’t _Haley Brooks Hotchner_.

Instead, he downed two glasses of bourbon in rapid succession. 

He tried reading the papers again but stopped on the word “husband” again. He poured a third glass and sat back on the couch, tossing the envelope on top of the coffee table with those neatly stapled pages peeking out.

Aaron closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

Drinking himself into oblivion wasn’t going to change anything, except give him a nasty headache. 

The knock at his door made him cringe.

What now? 

Eight o’clock on a Thursday and no one had tried to contact him after his abrupt departure from the office. Gideon hadn’t even responded to his email. So who was visiting? Had Gideon given him breathing space before coming over and doling out advice that Aaron really didn’t want to hear? Would it be Morgan demanding to know why Aaron left after his meeting with Strauss without a word to anyone? _Please, God, don’t let it be Garcia …_

The person knocked again, this time using the ‘Shave and a Haircut’ pattern.

There was only one person routinely used that particular knock: Spencer.

Aaron’s breath caught in his chest. He opened his eyes and turned toward the door.

_What the hell is Spencer doing here? Did he know I was served my papers this morning? Does he still call Haley when he’s in town? Did Haley tell him?_

Aaron scrambled to his feet, plunking the glass of bourbon on the table next to the envelope. He walked to the door and checked the peephole, seeing that Spencer looked to be in a joyful mood. The man held papers in his hand as he grinned and bounced on his feet.

 _He’s not here about your divorce,_ the sober part of Aaron’s mind concluded. _He has some other news. He’s accepted a job at a university … or something … He’s happy. He’s excited. So it’s good news. Good news. You need to be happy for him._

It took a shitload of willpower for Aaron to bury his own pain and open the door to the man he considered his friend, his confidante. 

The man whose letters kept Aaron from drowning his sorrows.

“Aaron!” Spencer beamed as he stepped forward and hugged him hard. Aaron barely had time to reciprocate before Spencer released him and made his way into the apartment. “Great news! The _Journal of Applied Criminal Psychology_ has accepted our paper!” he crowed and held up the letter in his hand. “It’s going to be a separate supplement to next month’s journal. Can you believe it? A separate supplement!”

“That’s fantastic,” Aaron said, forcing enthusiasm into his words as he closed the door and locked it. He watched as Spencer paced in his small living room, waving his hands has he explained that it was the first time in twelve years that the Journal had done a supplement that didn’t coincide with their annual meeting. 

“I beg you to reconsider being listed,” Spencer implored as he approached, earnestness shining in his eyes. “You haven’t published anything in six years.” And the way he made that sound, it was as if Aaron had never done it at all.

“I co-wrote the textbook on negotiations,” he stated, knowing he sounded a bit defensive. The petty part of him chimed in with, _And a hell of lot more people read that than they do some stupid journal._ “It was updated last year. I also developed the Academy coursework on Type Four assassins.”

“But that’s within the Bureau,” Spencer said dismissively. “Those texts aren’t available to the general public.” Spencer stopped pacing. “This? This is _academic_.”

All at once, the indignant feelings Aaron had towards Spencer’s comments about publications faded. _Academic. Beyond the Bureau. A safety net just in case Strauss is able to oust you from the BAU._ Those thoughts caused Aaron to sway slightly, his gaze now focused on the papers peeking out of that Godforsaken envelope.

Life beyond the Bureau.

God.

Would it become that bad? Could Strauss succeed in her plan of eliminating him completely from the Bureau?

What would he be without his badge and his title and the BAU?

He wasn’t anything like Spencer, who still had the Ancient Eight and a host of other top universities clamoring after him. Spencer, whose skills as a poker player enabled him to take care of his mother and travel about the country with little worry about money. 

Aaron was nothing like that. Just a former prosecutor who graduated second in his class and jumped to the FBI after three years in the prosecutor’s office. Sure, he had plenty of courtroom experience. He could go back to prosecuting; his experience in the field and relationships with law enforcement were certainly a boon. He could be an expert witness; the BAU had exposed him to a broad spectrum of criminal types. Yet he knew if he was put on the stand, any attorney worth their salt would immediately focus on his failures.

And if he was ousted from the Bureau? That would be the biggest failure of them all.

Spencer lightly grasped Aaron’s upper arms. He called Aaron’s name twice before Aaron mentally shook himself. 

Life beyond the Bureau. Yet …

“I … I…” Aaron faltered. He suddenly couldn’t remember what he was going to say.

Just as quickly as Spencer had touched him, the man let him go. It caused Aaron to open his eyes and watch as the younger man marched over to the coffee table and picked up that stupid, stupid envelope. Spencer pulled out the papers and scanned the top page. His left hand balled into a fist as his shoulders stiffened for a moment before he relaxed again. He slid the papers inside, set it on the table, and walked back to Aaron.

“Are you going to contest it?” Spencer asked softly, using that gentle, warm tone he always used when discussing Aaron’s messy life.

Aaron let out a bitter laugh. He waved toward the table as the words stuck in his throat. 

Contest it.

God, if he was going to fight it, he would have done so before he agreed to move out. 

“It’s a martial settlement agreement, Spencer,” he explained flatly. “Haley and I have ‘lived separate and apart without cohabitation’ for over a year. Those are the minimum requirements for a no-fault, absolute divorce in Virginia. That?” Aaron gestured towards the envelope again. “That just makes it official.” 

There was a long pause before Spencer said firmly, “This doesn’t make you a failure.”

The statement caused Aaron to square his shoulders and meet Spencer’s gaze. What he wasn’t expecting was the ferocious protectiveness blazing from the man’s eyes.

Spencer continued fiercely, “I know how you think, Aaron. You think you failed, but you didn’t. You tried your best to make it work. You made concessions when, perhaps, you shouldn’t have. Throughout all of it, you _tried_. Most men would have demanded divorce the moment their wives strayed. Yet you didn’t. You blamed yourself for what happened when you shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t want absolution.”

“I’m not giving you absolution,” Spencer retorted. “I’m telling you my perspective. You didn’t fail. Your relationship broke and neither of you could fix it. It was broken long before I started showing up on Sundays for dinner and football.”

“What? Our invitation was our subconscious desire to prove to each other that we could function as a couple in social setting?” he snapped sarcastically. 

“Yes.”

The succinct answer struck Aaron hard. He wasn’t sure what to say to that statement, something that had never been addressed in the myriad of counseling sessions he endured. He dropped his hands to his sides and closed his eyes, as the anger drained from him. He wanted to argue because that was what he was most familiar with.

Challenge his opponent. Debate him. Get him off his game so Aaron could soundly win, because that was why Aaron was such a good prosecutor. He knew how to interrogate, to prove his point.

But he found himself defenseless against Spencer. Spencer was the one person who seemed to know all his tricks. 

All Aaron had left was the truth, one which was painful to say aloud. “Pride keeps the ring on my finger. Pride makes me hide the truth from the Team.” He grimaced as he stared at the floor. “Garcia is the only one who knows about my change of address, and, God love her, she hasn’t said a word. But you know what she does on some nights?” He bit his lip briefly before he continued, hoping that his voice didn’t crack. “On her way out she … she tells me there are leftovers in the fridge. She tells me to take them home and eat them up else she’ll change my ringtone to ‘Hot Stuff’ and I won’t be able to switch it back.” He breathed out a few times. “Pride keeps me from thanking her, because that would mean admitting to my failure.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to be honest with, Spencer.” He forced himself to look up. “I don’t know why that is … I don’t see you as the kid who walked into my office four years ago and seemed to hang on every word I said, as if I were your idol. See? There’s my pride again. But now I see you as a man … as a man who understands me. As a man who deserves the truth. Pride kept me from demanding a divorce, because I did not want my private life dragged out in the courts where anyone could read the details. Pride made me keep the illusion until Haley forced the issue.” He paused and then laughed darkly. “Actually, I think it was cowardice.”

Spencer firmly grasped Aaron’s left hand. “You’re not a coward, Aaron.”

“No … I’m pretty much sure it’s …”

“You’re not a coward!” Spencer snapped harshly, his grip suddenly excruciatingly tight. “I’ll accept that pride misled you, but you have _never_ been a coward. _Ever_.”

Unnerved by the man’s sudden change in mood, Aaron took a step back but Spencer did not release him. “Spencer …” he began, unsure of what to say. “Spencer, I …”

In a blur of movement, Spencer’s lips crashed down on Aaron’s, hard and unforgiving. The other man’s hand slipped around Aaron’s neck, effectively holding him in place. Aaron’s shock immediately gave into desire and relief. _He wants me! Oh, God, he wants me!_

Aaron responded by splaying his hand against the small of Spencer’s back, holding them together and their kissed continued. It was rough. Their teeth knocked as their mouths moved. Aaron wanted to be embarrassed by the low moans rumbling from his throat, but the need to be touched and desired quelled those emotions.

It was Spencer who broke away first. It was Spencer who released his hold on Aaron and took a step back so that Aaron’s hand that was on his back now dropped to Aaron’s side. It was Spencer who said quietly yet with passion, “If you were a coward, you would have decked the shit out of me, not kissed me back.”

Aaron closed the distance between them, sliding his hand around Spencer’s neck and holding him in place as he delivered his own forceful kiss. Spencer balked, but Aaron would not relent. A year and a half of fantasies and pent-up desire overrode Aaron’s sensibilities. Like he had done with the first kiss, he planted his other hand on the small of Spencer’s back and pulled their bodies together. He let out a moan as his cock pressed against Spencer’s hip. 

After a few moments, Spencer relaxed and returned his kiss, although it wasn’t with the same force or passion as his initial one. The lack of enthusiasm caused Aaron to stop, but he didn’t release his hold on Spencer.

“I need you,” he breathed. “Please.”

“You’re still married.”

“What?” Aaron blinked and moved back just enough so that he could meet Spencer’s gaze. 

“You’re still married.”

“Technically.”

“Yes, but you still are.”

Aaron’s temper flared and he pushed away. “What the hell? You go and kiss me just to prove I’m not a goddamn coward but then you pull the ‘you’re still married’ line? You’re a fucking cocktease.”

“Aaron!” Spencer snapped sharply. “I kissed you because I _wanted_ to. Yes, part of it was to prove a point, but that other part? That other part is because I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met. As much as I hated watching your marriage fall apart because of what it was doing to you emotionally, I was thrilled because I finally had a chance with you!”

“Then why stop?”

“You’re still married.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” Spencer argued. “I remembered what you said about adultery. This still is! I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow morning and regret …”

“You’re telling me a piece of paper is holding you back?” Aaron demanded. “Fine. Fine!” He stormed over to the table and picked up the envelope. “I’ll sign the damn thing right now.”

“No, you won’t!” he yelled as he marched forward and yanked the envelope out of Aaron’s hands. He flung it to the side as he seethed in front of Aaron. “Signing that agreement without proper legal review is stupid. That’s your dick telling your brain what the hell to do! You _will not_ do it! Why? Because you will regret it! Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow morning. But you will. I absolutely _refuse_ to be a decision that you will regret. Give me some credit for understanding you, Aaron. I know how you think! I know how you feel!”

For the longest moment, Aaron just stared at his former subordinate as his brain finally caught up with the exchange. They were both breathing heavily from the verbal exchange and Spencer’s cheeks were flushed as his eyes blazed with intensity.

Aaron’s pragmatic side then kicked in. The ever logical Spencer had prevented him from doing something epically stupid. The anger that had boiled up in Aaron quickly subsided. Spencer was right: he knew better than to sign any legal documents—especially something as important as a marital settlement—without thoroughly reviewing them.

 _I know how you think! I know how you feel!_ The phrases echoed in Aaron’s mind. _I absolutely refuse to be a decision that you will regret._

“I don’t regret this,” Aaron said quietly as he met Spencer’s gaze again. “I don’t and I won’t.”

Spencer’s expression softened as he closed his eyes as took a few deep breaths. “I don’t regret this either,” he stated, voice was soft as Aaron’s. “I just … I’ve seen how divorces play out, how bitter they can be even if it’s supposedly ‘no-fault.’ If you end up on the stand and asked if you’ve had an affair, I want you to be able to answer honestly.”

“I doubt Haley and I will go to trial,” Aaron replied quietly. “It’s as damaging to her as it is to me.”

“It’s more damaging to you, Aaron.” Spencer hitched an eyebrow. “The unit chief of an elite group of agents, ones who specialize in behavioral analysis, admits on the stand that he knew his wife was having an affair and did nothing to stop it. You know as well as I do that any criminal defense attorney will use that as an example of your lack in judgment, even if technically, it should be inadmissible.”

It was a blunt assessment, one which should have hurt but didn’t. Maybe it was because the lawyer-side of Aaron appreciated the reasoning.

“Goes to credibility,” Aaron murmured as he thought about the defense bringing his personal life up. At least Spencer didn’t tack on, _Since it’s more damaging to you, it’s in your best interests to stay out of court._

“Tarnishing the expert witness in an effort to establish reasonable doubt,” Spencer added sadly. 

Good Lord, how many times had Aaron seen _that_ tactic come into play?

“I’m not rejecting you,” Spencer continued, that quiet yet urgent passion seeping into his voice. “It’s just that when I finally _have_ you, I will have you fully. Outright. I will not share you, Aaron, even if the status of you being married is simply a legal technicality.”

 _I will not share you._ The words made Aaron shiver. Had anyone ever made such a declaration to him? Aaron couldn’t remember, but he seriously doubted it. A statement like that would be hard to forget. The thought of someone claiming him like that should have elicited some excitement, yet the weariness from earlier came back.

He was tired. So damned tired. 

“Have you had dinner yet?” Spencer asked.

The abrupt change in subject was welcome, even if the thought of food made Aaron’s stomach twinge. “No.” 

“I can order takeout,” the other man offered, “and have it delivered. You need to eat something, Aaron.”

 _Something besides bourbon,_ his mind primly informed him. _You must have tasted like a distillery!_ While he had no desire to eat, Aaron still agreed with a nod. Then, he ventured, “Will you stay?”

“For dinner? Of course.”

“Not just for dinner,” Aaron found himself stammering, his gaze now focused on his glass of booze on the end table. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, _I don’t trust myself alone tonight._

For a few moments, there was silence. Then Spencer said, “Of course, I’ll stay.”

Relief poured through Aaron. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully. “Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The evening went by quietly. There was no more discussion about Aaron’s impending divorce; instead, they talked about Spencer’s paper being published as a supplemental and the possibility of Spencer presenting at the annual conference. When Aaron explained that he had “Friday and the weekend off,” he didn’t elaborate that he had been suspended. He was too embarrassed to tell Spencer. Still, the news prompted Spencer into offering to stay the whole weekend, a proposition Aaron quickly accepted.

Spencer insisted on sleeping in the guest room, which was a disappointment. _So close … he’s so close,_ Aaron’s mind cooed, but he knew that he couldn’t dare to cross the line. Spencer was adamant about it, so Aaron had to respect it. It didn’t stop him from jacking off in the privacy of his bedroom as he recalled how Spencer had kissed him. It didn’t stop him from seriously considering faking a nightmare so Spencer would comfort him, but he quickly dismissed that idea as absolutely pathetic. 

What Aaron wasn’t expecting was to wake up Friday morning to the smell of coffee and bacon. It was almost eight and it had been a very long time since he’d awakened to the delicious smells of breakfast.

He quickly dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt and wandered out to the main part of his apartment. He found Spencer at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his left hand while the fingers on his right quickly slid down a printed page. 

_The Hand Man files,_ Aaron immediately realized. _Christ, I must have left them out the other night._ The rule-following unit chief in him wanted to scoop up the reports and chastise Spencer for being nosy. The other part of him, the one desperate to find the UnSub, was eager to hear what Spencer’s theories were. Unsure of what to do, Aaron cleared his throat.

Spencer looked up, eyes wide as a blush highlighted his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said earnestly as he closed the file and put his coffee down. “I saw the map,” he gestured to the 8.5” x 11” page US map that usually resided on Aaron’s desk but was now on the table, “and I couldn’t resist.” He placed the file back in the stack. “I’m sorry.”

It was Aaron’s turn to blush at the mention of the map. “The map has nothing to do with the case.” 

“Oh,” Spencer said, sounding confused.

The chief pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. _Might as well confess. He’ll figure it out soon enough._ “A few months ago, I couldn’t sleep one night so I marked some of the cities where you sent letters from.”

“You did?” Spencer asked, sounding surprised yet pleased. Aaron looked over to find the other man beaming at him. He watched as Spencer rose to his feet and walked up to him. His grin was wide as his eyes sparkled. 

It didn’t alleviate Aaron’s embarrassment, so he had no idea why he continued, “I get so tired of associating cities with cases. It’s nice looking at that map and thinking, ‘Spencer’s been there’ instead of, oh, I don’t know. The Blue Ridge Strangler or the Boston Reaper.” He winced. “Jesus, that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the younger man said quietly, but his smile hadn’t diminished. “It’s actually quite flattering.” He reached up and brushed the back of his hand down the side of Aaron’s face. 

Aaron closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. When Spencer’s thumb brushed across his lower lip, Aaron declared hoarsely, “If you keep that up, I will take you to my bed, Spencer Reid, regardless of the legal status of my marriage.”

Spencer huffed out a laugh as his hand dropped away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” 

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Spencer gently grasped Aaron’s left hand and raised it between them. Spencer’s long, graceful fingers glided down his ring finger, settling on his wedding ring. Spencer wiggled it a few times and then carefully, slowly tugged it off.

Spencer held the ring between his thumb and forefinger before turning slightly and placing the ring on the table. He then lifted Aaron’s hand to his lips and gently kissed were the ring had once been. 

Aaron swallowed hard, stunned at how such a simple act was erotic and liberating at the same time. It was as if Spencer was saying, _She has no claim to you now._

Spencer lowered their hands, released his light grip, and then stepped back. “I meant what I said about wanting you all to myself. I don’t like sharing.”

“I don’t like sharing either.”

“Then … you understand why?”

As much as he hated that he did, Aaron affirmed, “Yeah. I get it.” 

“Would you, ah, like some breakfast?”

The question made Aaron snort out a laugh. “You did that last night, too. Change the conversation by mentioning food.”

“It’s a legitimate diversion.”

“Yeah, but one you’ve used already. Don’t you want to talk about the Hand Man?”

“The who?”

Aaron motioned towards the file. “It’s the internal name we have for the UnSub. I know it’s a lousy one, but it’s the easiest way to describe him. He targets alcoholic lawyers who physically abuse their sons. His signature is mutilating his victims’ hands. As you can see, we’ve been tracking him for over almost two years.”

“You brought the files home with you.” Spencer frowned as he looked at the stack on the table.

“We thought we had a shot at capturing him in Savannah, the site of his last kills,” Aaron admitted, “but we were recalled. So, yeah, I’ve got copies of the files with me because I can’t seem to let it go.”

“Why not?”

“I know there’s something I’m missing,” he said honestly. “I know that all we need is a break and we can nail this guy. I thought we had one in Savannah, but we didn’t.” Aaron tilted his head, debating his next words. Yes, Spencer had stepped away but clearly, something drew him to the files. “You know, I am able to authorize an expert to consult on a case,” he began casually. “You have fresh eyes. You’ve always been amazing with patterns. I bet you’ll find something that we’re missing. The Hand Man travels. You said yourself you couldn’t resist the lure of a marked up map.”

Spencer took a step back. He shook his head. “No … I can’t.”

“You’ve already read the files,” he stated, genuinely surprised at Spencer’s reluctance. 

“Just the one.”

“Stack,” Aaron playfully corrected. “You read just one stack.”

Yet instead of going along with the gentle teasing, Spencer became agitated. He balled his fists as he spat, “I said, no!” 

It was Aaron’s turn to take a step back, giving Spencer a little more space. He never outright asked why Spencer had left the Bureau. Sure, he had his own theories—mainly that Spencer blamed himself fully for the whole Randall Garner mess and Elle’s subsequent departure—but he didn’t know Spencer’s reasons. With as close as they had grown since Spencer’s resignation, it was a subject that Aaron purposefully never brought up.

“It’s okay,” Aaron assured him as he held up his hands slightly in surrender. “I didn’t mean to upset or pressure you.”

Spencer stood stock still for a moment, hands still fisted as he breathed harshly. Then, like those times before when Aaron witnessed Spencer’s explosive anger, it seemed to smooth away. Spencer’s body relaxed and his hands uncurled. His face took on an earnest, apologetic expression. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I just … I don’t want to …” He trailed off, giving a little wave towards the files.

“You don’t have to explain,” Aaron told him, despite his desire to hear what set Spencer off so badly. “What about that breakfast you had mentioned?”

Spencer’s smile met his eyes. “I went to the store this morning and picked some things up. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	9. Chapter 9

_~~~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My dearest Aaron,
> 
> Greetings from Atlantic City, New Jersey …
> 
> … I began working on my gambling treatise, but I cannot find the same enthusiasm as I had for our Injustice Collectors work. Perhaps I should consider another topic. 
> 
> As always yours,  
> Spencer
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~~~_

The Sig Sauer P226 gleamed in the low light of Aaron’s apartment. Underneath the gun was an envelope with Gideon’s familiar scrawl across the front. Aaron didn’t possess Reid’s eidetic memory, but Gideon’s words seared themselves in his mind the first time he read them while he had been at the cabin.

> _
> 
> Aaron,   
> I knew it would be you who came to the cabin to check on me. I'm sorry the explanation couldn't be better. And I'm sorry it doesn't make more sense. But I've already told you, I just don't understand any of it anymore …
> 
> _

Aaron had searched the cabin since the words certainly had the tones of a suicide note, especially the lines about already submitting formal resignation to Strauss. Gideon wasn’t there, neither was his jeep. Aaron hoped that Gideon took a page from Spencer’s book and decided to travel in order to sort things out.

He knew that he was still in shock over the events from the past ten days. Sarah Jacobs, Gideon’s longtime “she’s not really my girlfriend” friend, was brutally murdered by Frank Brietkopf in Gideon’s apartment. Brietkopf went on to use Gideon’s ‘Book of the Saved’ to kidnap young Tracy Belle, whom they rescued from the hands of a blood-thirsty boy three years ago in Texas. Brietkopf demanded that his love, Jane, be returned to him in exchange for Tracy. Once reunited on that platform, Brietkopf and Jane committed suicide by jumping in front of an oncoming train.

The subsequent IA investigation was swift and brutal. Gideon was spared from disciplinary action, but Aaron was not so fortunate. He was handed a three week suspension without pay and his reinstatement would be dependent upon Strauss’s approval as well as a psych evaluation. 

It was clear what Strauss’ strategy was: discredit him enough to force his transfer to a different department or his resignation. The still-unresolved Hand Man and Mission Gasser cases plus Elle’s and Spencer’s departures from the Bureau were ample fodder. What was most terrifying was how he felt about the whole situation: indifferent.

Perhaps it was the shock over Jacobs’ murder and watching Frank and Jane jump to their deaths. Maybe it was the bone-deep emotional exhaustion from finalizing his divorce.

Maybe because Jason so eloquently summed it up by writing, I just don’t understand any of it anymore … because honest to God, right here and now, Aaron didn’t.

The only things he knew were that the bourbon in his glass tasted sharp and sour, his empty stomach protested the intrusion of alcohol, and that he could probably sit on his couch for the entire three weeks of his suspension and really not give a shit about anything.

Yet as he poured his second glass, he thought about how booze was his father’s way of dealing with things. Aaron glanced at his watch—Good Lord, it wasn’t even two in the afternoon and he was considering another drink—and then to Spencer’s letter postmarked two days ago from Atlantic City. 

_May I interest you in a meeting to discuss possible subjects for a truly collaborative effort?_ Spencer had written. 

They had discussed Aaron traveling with Spencer a few times, but nothing concrete. The Job tended to get in the way and Aaron loathed taking time off from the Job, especially after he was separated from Haley.

Yet now … his divorce was finalized … he and Spencer kept missing each other while in town. The publication of Spencer’s paper garnered him speaking engagements at the various universities; Spencer would be a fool if he turned those paid appearances down. The unexpected three weeks off could finally give Aaron and Spencer time together without the interruptions of Aaron’s job.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed Spencer’s answering service, wishing as he always did that Spencer would finally get a cell phone. 

Once the operator answered and confirmed his name and callback number, Aaron dictated the message. “Please call me as soon as you can. I don’t care about the time zone. I’d like to meet up to, ah, ‘discuss possible subjects for a truly collaborate effort.’” Aaron couldn’t help but grin as he said those words. “End message.”

The operator read the words back, Aaron approved it, and he hung up. He slid the phone back into its holster on his belt and then began repacking his suitcase with casual clothes. He thought about taking the Hand Man files with him and perhaps cajoling Spencer into reviewing the latest evidence with him. Then Aaron recalled the hostility Spencer had towards the case. He left the files on his dining room table.

An hour later, Aaron’s cell rang. When he didn’t recognize the number, his heart raced a little. Please be Spencer, he thought as he answered the line. “Hotchner.”

“Hi, Aaron,” Spencer greeted, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic as Aaron was expecting. The younger man sounded worried, cautious. “I received your message. Is everything okay?”

Aaron snorted and shook his head. “It was a very bad case.”

“The Breitkopf one.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed as he checked to make sure he had his phone charger. “Look, it’s a long and hellish story that I don’t really want to share over the phone. The short version is that I have three weeks of unexpected vacation and…” Aaron took a deep breath. “And I’d like to spend them with you. The divorce is final. You said your letter you wanted to, ah, collaborate on something new sometime. Well. How about now?”

There was a split second pause before Spencer replied, sounding cheery and eager. “Of course! I’m still in Atlantic City. I could be in DC by …”

“I’ll drive up,” he offered, wanting to put physical distance between him and the Job.

“Oh. Well. Take the train,” Spencer told him. “There’s a six-oh-five Northeast Regional that connects in Philadelphia. You’ll take the eight-forty-five N-J Transit to Atlantic City. You’ll get in around 10:20 and then you can take a taxi to Harrah’s, where I’m staying. It’s about a 10 minute ride.”

Aaron immediately thought of Frank and Jane, then Jason’s collection of model trains. He almost said no. He almost insisted that he drive, but then he mentally slapped himself. _You don’t stop getting into a car just because an UnSub dives in front of it to suicide, do you?_

“Oh, Aaron!” Spencer exclaimed. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry. If you want to …”

“No,” he interrupted. “Don’t worry about it. The train is fine. The six-oh-five you said?”

“Yes. Northeast Regional.” 

“I guess I’d better get going.”

“I’ll meet you at the front entrance of the hotel, where the taxis drop off.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“See you soon, Aaron. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me neither.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Aaron couldn’t recall the last time he’d been at a hotel that was not case-related. The vacations he spent with Haley usually involved visiting her parents or renting a condo on the beach. When the cab pulled up, Aaron scanned the crowd and found Spencer chatting animatedly with one of the valets. Aaron couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when the valet flirted with Spencer.

_He’s not the only one who doesn’t like to share,_ Aaron thought to himself while paying the driver.

Another valet rushed forward to get the cab door and to help Aaron with his luggage. Aaron waved him off as he got out of the car and slug the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Even if it was to be three weeks with Spencer, Aaron still preferred to travel light. The train ride had been more relaxing than he had expected and also gave him time to rest. 

“Aaron!” Spencer called out and waved. He then turned to the valet, discreetly handed him something.

_A tip?_ Aaron thought. _A tip for what?_ Yet those thought were banished the moment Spencer gave him a ferocious hug. The former agent then slung his arm around Aaron’s shoulders and led him inside, reciting the history of the casino as he went.

Aaron paid attention as Spencer navigated them through the lobby then past the retail shops to a bank of elevators next to a sub shop and across from a night club. Spencer continued to talk at the breakneck speed he used to have as an agent. It wasn’t until they had exited the elevator and stood in front of a hotel room door that Spencer stopped and pulled out two keycards.

“Here,” he said, handing one to Aaron. “I’ll have another set made—I’m always demagnetizing mine—but it’s for our room for the next five days. Unfortunately, the front desk won’t give you one since you’re not a registered guest.” Spencer used the card to open the door. He took a step in and to the side before gesturing Aaron inside. “As to where we go after this? Well, we can head up to Connecticut if you want. Does that sound okay?”

Aaron didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the inside of the room.

No. This wasn’t just a room.

It was a goddamn _suite_. 

“Spence…” he found himself stuttering as he thought about how much this cost per night. 

“Oh this?” Spencer looked around and then shrugged. “It’s comp’d.”

“They _comp’d_ you a suite?”

Spencer gave a shark-like grin. “There are perks to being a professional gambler, Aaron.”

“Good Christ.”

“It’s off-season as well,” he continued as he ushered Aaron further inside, closing and locking the door behind him. “I also figured out how maximize their rewards system. Personally, I think they leave in loopholes just to see if there’s someone smart or patient enough to take advantage of them. Do you want the tour?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Aaron continued to look around, thinking of all the crappy hotel rooms he’d endured over the years. Would something like this made some of those cases he worked a bit easier? Perhaps. When they got to the bathroom, Aaron’s imagination ran wild. The tub was big enough for two, as was the walk-in shower. Bathing together isn’t going to be a phenomenal pain in the ass, he thought as his cock grew hard. _And I can finally live out that ‘fucked in the shower’ fantasy of mine._

But what made Aaron blush was the bedroom. The king bed dominated area and he knew that it was the only traditional space to sleep. He knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed; Spencer had clearly said “our” earlier, but seeing the lone bed made all the more real.

Spencer turned to him, eyes shining and a shy smile playing across his lips. “Do you mind sharing?”

“Not at all,” he blurted and pulled the younger man against him. “Not at all.” He planted a firm kiss on Spencer’s lips, closing his eyes and savoring the feel.

Spencer responded, darting his tongue into Aaron’s mouth as he deftly moved the strap of Aaron’s overnight back from Aaron’s shoulder to the floor. He maneuvered them over to the bed, where he leaned down and pulled back the covers. 

Aaron was hard, aching. He ran his hands along Spencer’s arms and side, thrilled that he could finally touch. He plucked at Spencer’s clothing only to have his own shirt pulled up and over his head. Before, he never had to wrestle with dominance; his partner always yielded to his lead. But Spencer? Well, Spencer clearly wasn’t going to stand by the wayside and allow Aaron to control everything. That thought made Aaron’s knees buckle, and Spencer took advantage of it, pivoting him so that they fell back onto the mattress, the younger man on top.

Spencer’s hands roamed across Aaron’s chest, pinching his nipples and smoothing along his belly. Spencer sucked on Aaron’s tongue, as if to give a preview of what he planned on doing with Aaron’s dick, and all Aaron could do was moan. He managed to ruck up the dress shirt and splay his hand across Spencer’s back before sliding his hand to Spencer’s flat abdomen, determined to wiggle his fingers past the belted waistband of Spencer’s trousers.

Yet the other man grabbed his wrist and pulled it away, pinning it beside his head and against the mattress. Spencer stopped kissing him and said, “Let me take care of you.”

“But I want …” Aaron didn’t get to finish the sentence. Spencer cut him off with another kiss.

“Let me take care of you,” the man repeated after several moments. Spencer nibbled on his jaw and then sucked on Aaron’s earlobe.

Aaron arched because, damn! The man had found a weak spot and as if sensing Aaron’s vulnerability, concentrated his efforts. It took a few moments for Aaron to stutter, “Yes.”

What happened next was a blur. Aaron couldn’t quite remember how Spencer effortlessly stripped him but managed to keep his own clothes on. But when Spencer’s slicked hand—and where the hell did the lube come from?—circled Aaron’s cock and gave it a firm stroke, Aaron gave up the effort to remember the details and gave in to the sensation.

“I want to stroke your cock until you come,” Spencer whispered huskily.

“Please,” because … Oh God. Spencer’s touch was now light and rousing … maddening. Aaron’s dick throbbed. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I imagined this moment. You, in my bed … your cock hard … you needing this…” Spencer ran his fingers down Aaron’s shaft and Aaron arched and moaned. “Being able to touch you … Work you like this …” His hand circled Aaron’s cock and he began to pump it slowly. 

The words and touch were almost too much for Aaron. Between his sentences, Spencer’s lips and tongue caressed his neck, sending shivers throughout Aaron’s body. Aaron rocked into the tight fist that Spencer had formed around his cock, whimpering for more as the words stuck in his throat. His orgasm built rapidly, singing along his nerves.

“Getting you off … I can feel how close you are,” Spencer continued, voice low and throaty. “How long has it been since someone’s touched you like this?”

“Two years, one month,” Aaron blurted, but the shame he thought he would feel with that confession nowhere to be found. Instead, pleasure surged through him because this was the man whom he wanted touching him. 

Spencer’s strokes increased in speed and pressure. “I want you to come, Aaron.” 

“Oh God,” he choked out as he thrust into Spencer’s hand. “Oh God.”

“Come for me,” Spencer ordered, voice quiet and fierce. “Let go.”

“Spencer…” Aaron choked out right before his climax hit, his body shaking from the force of it. 

“That’s it. Every last bit,” the younger man cooed as he milked Aaron’s dick until Aaron pawed at him to stop. Spencer moved so that Aaron could sprawl flat on his back, gasping for air. Aaron could vaguely feel Spencer wiping his hand on something before reaching up and tracing Aaron’s brow. “So magnificent.”

With that compliment, Aaron rolled to face Spencer, capturing his lips in a possessive kiss. Christ, his belly and groin were a wet mess, but he didn’t care. Despite the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hand roamed as he was determined to return the favor. Aaron hadn’t felt Spencer’s hard on while Spencer was getting him off, but he chalked that up to odd angles.

Yet when he reached down, he found himself fondling Spencer’s flaccid cock through the fine wool of his trousers. Spencer grasped his wrist and pulled him away. Confused, Aaron broke away from the kiss and looked at Spencer. After all those incendiary things Spencer said, Aaron was expecting a rock hard cock, not the soft, limp flesh.

The younger man flushed a pretty shade of red. “I think… I think I’m so caught up in my head that my body doesn’t want to cooperate,” Spencer confessed quietly, the early sexiness gone from his tone. “I mean, I finally have you and … I think … I think I just have to get used to having you in my bed. That I’m not just imagining you here.”

“It’s okay,” Aaron said quickly, not wanting the man to feel any worse that he probably already was. _Isn’t it just our luck? We finally get together and we get another setback._ He leaned in for a gentle kiss, pouring as much reassurance into it as he could. He didn’t know what else to say. Hell, he was fearful of saying something that would make things worse.

Spencer then favored him with that earnest, hopeful smile. “We have later, don’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Aaron slowly woke up to the feeling of a lean body next to his and fingers lightly curled on his hip. He was on his left side, facing the closet, and there was no gun safe on nightstand. He knew he was in a hotel room by the darkness of it; he specifically didn’t have blackout curtains in his own bedroom so he would know, upon waking up, if he was home.

He savored the way Spencer spooned against him and Spencer’s gentle yet possessive hold. It was change from what he was used to with Haley; back in the early years of their marriage, she would sleep in the circle of his arms. This position with Spencer was different, yet somehow more satisfying. It was as if Spencer were claiming him, protecting him, from whatever was out there.

It was a nice feeling, one that he had been dreaming about for quite a while. One that part of him still couldn’t believe was happening.

Aaron thought about last night. As far as first times went, he certainly enjoyed himself. Damn, Spencer seemed to know just how to stroke him. But it was also disappointing because he hadn’t been able to get Spencer off. Although his lover had shrugged it aside, Aaron knew that it bothered him. He wondered how long Spencer had suffered from erectile dysfunction. Was it just a one-time thing like Spencer had implied? Or was this something that the younger man had been dealing with for a long time? If the latter, how did Spencer handle all those times when Gideon deliberately provoked an UnSub by calling into question the UnSub’s manhood?

Gideon had a mean streak when it came to “male performance issues” or whatever colorful euphemism it was being called this week. Getting a reaction out of an UnSub was part of what they did, part of what made them good at their jobs, but as profilers, they also knew to not take those insults personally. Was the impotence issue part of what drove Spencer from the Bureau? Spencer couldn’t bear to hear someone being berated for their ED because he suffered from it himself? Or was it because the Job caused it in the first place?

_You’re overthinking it, Hotchner,_ he chastised himself. _Spencer was just as nervous as you last night. You had the lasting power of a virgin teen and he just couldn’t get it going._

Yet it was now morning. Perhaps if Aaron woke his lover with a hand job, Spencer wouldn’t be awake enough to be nervous. After all, Spencer had said he was over-thinking things.

So Aaron carefully shifted until he was facing his lover, nudging the man until he was on his back. Last night, they both had changed into sleepwear, Aaron taking his cues from Spencer. While Aaron wore boxers and an undershirt, Spencer’s ensemble was much more formal. Aaron didn’t know what it was about traditional pajamas and Spencer, but it was very appealing.

Aaron kept his touch light as he stroked Spencer’s arm and chest, working his way to where the PJ top had rucked up. He’d been surprised last night at how toned Spencer was. The younger man wasn’t at Morgan’s level of muscular definition, but he was lean like a swimmer. Aaron teased the drawstring open, thankful that it wasn’t elastic. He slid his hand into Spencer’s pants and was surprised—and then extremely pleased—that the man had gone commando.

He curled his fingers around Spencer’s semi-hard cock, committing the feel of it to memory. When Spencer groaned and spread his legs wider, Aaron grew more confident as he began to stroke lightly. Spencer’s mouth dropped open and Aaron took the opportunity to kiss him, soft yet exploratory. Aaron adjusted his hold on Spencer’s dick, wishing he’d thought of grabbing the lube before he started this, but he didn’t want to stop. 

He remembered how Spencer had worked him last night, thinking that was probably how Spencer touched himself, so he tried to mimic those moves. He kept it slow, relishing in how Spencer’s breathing hitched when he thumbed the head of his cock. When he felt Spencer’s cock growing harder, he smiled and sped up his strokes.

If this was a way to get around Spencer over-thinking things, so be it. Aaron didn’t mind at all.

Spencer moaned as he stirred awake, blinking slowly before focusing on Aaron. Aaron picked that moment to work the head of Spencer’s now hard prick, delighting in how Spencer closed his eyes and arched with pleasure. He increased his pace and, when Spencer plunged his hand into Aaron’s boxers to stoke him, he let out a growled, “Fuck, yes.”

He worked Spencer’s cock harder as he rocked into Spencer’s hand. He obeyed Spencer’s breathy order, “Faster,” and focused all his attention on Spencer’s facial expressions. He knew Spencer must be close because the man couldn’t keep a steady pace while stroking Aaron’s dick. Aaron didn’t care. 

Aaron wanted to say things like, “God you feel so good,” “wanted this for so long,” and “want to watch you come,” but he was afraid of breaking the quiet spell between them.

Suddenly, Spencer squeezed his eyes closed, wrapped his free hand around Aaron’s, and guided Aaron’s hand on his cock. The grip was tight, rough and fast. Spencer arched off the bed and let out a low wail as his body shook, ejaculate slicking their hands.

Just seeing that was all Aaron needed to come himself.

_That’s how it’s supposed to be,_ Aaron thought to himself as he eased his lover down from the orgasmic high. _That’s how it’s supposed to be._

~~~~~~~~


	10. Chapter 10

~~~~~~~~~~~

Over a late breakfast, Spencer laid down the rules for gambling. The biggest one was cash only. “Actually, that goes for the rest of your trip.”

Aaron looked up from his plate of scrambled eggs with toast. “What?”

“Cash only,” Spencer repeated patiently as he speared a chunk of pineapple. “It’s one of the ways to minimize your losses. Credit cards are convenient, but it’s a different situation when you’re gambling. It’s easy to keep going back to the ATM to get more money or, even worse, have the window take a cash advance on your Visa. You use what you have. Period.”

“Makes sense,” Aaron conceded.

“When you’re on the casino floor, you only bring down the cash you are going to gamble with. You don’t bring along extra for meals. You take a break from the table, go to your hotel room, take out whatever you’ve allotted yourself for a meal, and eat.”

“You’ve got this down to a science.”

“I’m a scientist,” Spencer answered with a cheeky grin. “From what I’ve observed, the more successful gamblers are those who set limits for themselves. Sure, you can get caught up in the excitement of a good hand, but when you run out, you run out.”

“That’s right. You’re working on a paper.”

“Was,” he corrected before making a face. “I just don’t have the same passion for it as I did for the injustice collectors.”

“I remember you saying that in one of your letters.”

“Right … Anyway, the cash rule also applies to the hotel room.”

“What?” Aaron blinked. “They won’t let you book without a credit card, even if it is comp’d by the hotel.”

“True,” Spencer acknowledged. “You do have to have a credit card on file, but when you check out, you pay in cash.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s foolish. With all that money on hand, you’re a pickpocket’s dream.”

“Not necessarily,” Spencer said. “You can convert your winnings into Visa gift cards and the like. But paying for your room with cash upon check out … it’s another way to keep you in check. Is it convenient? No. But it will keep you from taking cash advances from the hotel. Some hotels will allow you to take up to a $1000 per day. You won’t want to leave the casino destitute.”

“Are you saying I’m that bad of a player?”

“Oh, no, Aaron. You’re average.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Spencer retorted and nudged him with his foot. “I think you would fare well at poker because you’re a profiler. You just need practice. I can teach you to a point—card table tells are slightly different that straightforward profiling—but unless we’re at a practice dealer, I can’t coach you during a live hand. Anyway, the first rule is always use cash. The second rule…”

“Just how many of these rules do you have?”

“Twenty-seven, but you only have to follow the first five,” Spencer said cheerfully.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Really.” 

~~~~~~~

After breakfast, they went back to the hotel casino. Aaron withdrew $500 from the casino ATM (which amusingly only did increments of $100 and Spencer lectured on why) before they headed back to the suite. At Spencer’s suggestion, he kept $100 for the day and put the rest in the hotel safe. He tried not to gape when Spencer counted out his own daily allowance, which was ten times what Aaron had, because that allowance was itself one tenth of the total cash Spencer had. 

_Professional gambler,_ he reminded himself but wondered why Spencer put so much trust in a safe that quite a few people in the hotel had access to. He also saw a stack of credit cards rubber-banded together and tucked in the same pouch that held Spencer’s cash.

“How many credit cards do you have?” Aaron couldn’t help but ask as he powered off his cell phone and tossed it in the safe. He knew he was going to have a hard time not having it on his person, but sometime between sex with Spencer this morning and now, Aaron decided that he didn’t want any work-related interruptions. 

He was, after all, suspended. If the office needed to track him down so badly, they’d sic Garcia on his trail. 

“Gift cards,” Spencer corrected. “Visa and American Express, specifically. They’re actually easier for me to manage. I wasn’t returning to DC all that often—I plan to change that by the way—and tracking down a local branch of a bank to deposit my winnings all the time was just too cumbersome. I mean, for the bigger tournaments, I have the House wire-transfer my winnings to my account, but for the day-to-day things? I prefer these.”

Aaron knew he was staring, because if ten grand cash plus however much was on those gift cards was “day to day,” just how much did Spencer pull down in a major tournament? He mentally shook himself and acknowledged Spencer with a nod. Another thought struck him, “You don’t get any crap about using a gift card for a hotel room?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the property.” Spencer shrugged as he placed the bills in his wallet. 

“And you just, what? Go into a bank and get one?”

“Usually. You can get them at grocery stores, too. Really, it’s not that uncommon anymore.” Spencer then favored him with a wide grin. “So, are you up for your first video poker lesson?”

“Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

When Aaron turned on his cell phone for the first time in six days, he wasn’t expecting Garcia to call him the moment the phone got a cell signal. It was almost four in the afternoon.

“Where have you been, mister?” Garcia demanded, not bothering with a witty greeting. The phone made her voice sound higher and shriller than normal. “You trek on up to Atlantic City, take out five hundred bucks, and then poof! You’re gone! Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“I’m fine, Garcia …”

“You went off the grid!” she snapped harshly. “First Gideon goes AWOL, but he at least had the decency to formally resign. But you?!? Are you deliberately trying to kill me by making me worry so much?”

“Garcia … I’m sorry,” he apologized. Aaron knew she had gotten more protective of the team since the Fisher King case but just what kind of tabs was she keeping on him? It made him think about JJ, Griffith and Morgan. “Did something happen with the others?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “But you! You! I don’t care if you’re the unit chief, the grand Poobah of the Stoic or the Monkey King! You’re not allowed to go off the grid like that!!”

Aaron looked around the hotel room he shared with Spencer at the MGM Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut. They had taken the train from Atlantic City this morning, spending most of the eight hour trip reviewing Spencer’s treatise on gambling. Aaron agreed that it lacked the polish and enthusiasm as his lover’s other paper, but he did his best to encourage the man to keep writing and offer suggestions on where to improve it.

Once at the hotel, Spencer had taken care of checking in, mentioning something about rewards points and the system. Aaron was expecting another suite, but instead, they had regular hotel room. Admittedly, Aaron was disappointed, but quickly shrugged it off. The room was clean, smelled fresh and the mattress was comfortable. Once they unpacked, his lover headed off to the shower to clean up after the long ride.

“Garcia, I’m sorry,” Aaron repeated as he stared out the window. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I really needed to do this.” He dropped his voice low, “It’s been a shitty year.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “When I couldn’t find you, I went to a really dark place that I never want to go again,” Garcia finally said, but her voice was soft and full concern instead of hostility. 

Aaron winced. Had he been so worn down that she’d thought he’d eat his gun? Had the rest of the team thought the same thing? Was that why Morgan hadn’t said much more than, “Take care of yourself” instead of going off on how the suspension was bogus? He was at a loss for words.

Garcia broke the silence with an impish, “Please tell me you were swept off your feet by some gorgeous heiress and living la vida loca.” 

Aaron laughed as he thought about how he should answer. It was a conversation he already had with Spencer: how far “out” did they want to be? Spencer preferred not to be flamboyant about their relationship; he had always been a private person, which suited Aaron just fine. They agreed to tell the team that they spent time together, and if the team figured it out that it was just more than a friendship? Then, good for them.

But with Garcia actively searching for him, Aaron knew that she would discover hotel records and see that Spencer had booked a single King room. However, he also knew that she would be discreet. After all, she hadn’t whispered a word to the rest of the Team when Aaron had moved out of the home he had shared with Haley while he was still married. 

So Aaron opted for the truth. “I met up with Reid in Atlantic City and he let me crash with him. We’re up in Connecticut now.”

There was a split second pause. “Reid’s with you?”

“He offered me to teach me the ways of video poker,” Aaron went on. “I took him up on it.” As if on cue, Reid emerged from the bathroom, one towel wrapped around his waist and another around his shoulders. . At Spencer’s curious expression, he mouthed ‘Garcia’ and rolled his eyes a little. Spencer chuckled as he began getting dressed.

“Is here there now?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on!”

As if sensing Garcia’s demand, Spencer approached. “She wants to talk to me?”

Aaron nodded and, after his lover gestured for the phone, he handed it over.

“Hey, Garcia …” Spencer greeted. Although Aaron couldn’t clearly make out Garcia’s words, he knew she was giving him grief. “No, I didn’t shanghai your unit chief. Shanghaiing implies that I kidnapped him and I most certainly did not … Yes … Yes, I will …” Spencer mouthed the words ‘she wants to talk in private’ and Aaron nodded. Spencer then turned and walked to the bathroom. Once inside, he closed the door, but could clearly hear Spencer say, “burned out” before he did.

Aaron sat at the table, mildly annoyed that his lover and his tech analyst were talking about him so brazenly. _They care about you,_ Aaron’s mind whispered. _And you know damn well Garcia’s been keeping tabs on you. You even told Spencer about those meals in the BAU fridge!_ Those thoughts erased his irritation. 

The conversation was brief, Spencer returning to the main room and handing the phone back to Aaron. He winked and mouthed, ‘It’s okay.’

Aaron smiled gratefully as he placed the phone next to his ear. “Garcia …”

“I just worry about you, mon capitain,” she told him, her earlier ire replaced by affection.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I promise to keep my phone on.”

He swore he heard her hold back a giggle. “You just follow Doctor Reid’s orders, you hear?”

“I’ll do my best,” Aaron promised as he wondered just what Spencer had disclosed.   
“Take care, sir.”

“I will.” He ended the call, placing the phone on the table. “What did you tell her?”

“That I was making sure her favorite unit chief was getting the downtime he deserved.” He settled his arms on Aaron’s shoulders. “And when she asked if you were getting lucky, I said that you were a stud at video poker. When she asked if you were studly in other ways, I refused to answer because a gentleman never tells.”

“Well, thank you for easing her fears,” Aaron said.

“No problem. Although I think bringing her something sparkly as a peace offering may be a good idea.”

“Good point.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~


	11. Chapter 11

~~~~~~~~~ 

_"It is impossible to love and to be wise." – Sir Francis Bacon_

~~~~~~~~~~

Aaron supposed he could go the rest of his life without ever traveling by train, even if sex in the sleeper car had been more enjoyable than it had any right to be. From Philly, they traveled to Milwaukee by rail, but then rented a car (at Aaron’s insistence) to drive to the various casinos near the city. Aaron had even won the argument on taking a flight back to DC instead of traveling by train, and they returned to DC three days before Aaron’s Strauss-mandated psych eval.

During that time, they discussed things all new lovers seemed to talk about. How Aaron went from a rising star as a federal prosecutor to the FBI. His mother’s disapproval of his job choice. Haley’s initial enthusiasm for him doing something he was passionate about and how it turned sour as he climbed the ranks in the BAU. Spencer revealed more details about his childhood, ones that his personnel file didn’t cover. As heart-breaking as it was, Aaron admired how his lover managed his mother’s illness the best he could while keeping up the illusion to the family friends, neighbors and teachers that nothing was wrong with Diana Reid. 

Of course, they discussed the cases they worked, the ones that affected them the most. Aaron talked about the Boston Reaper—his first case as lead profiler—and how until the Hand Man came along, he worked on the profile in his spare time. 

“Now, I just can’t seem to let the Hand Man case go.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up with interest. “You understand his motivations?”

Aaron wanted to say, _Of course, I understand his motivations! I’m a profiler! It’s what I do!_ But he understood the real question that Spencer was asking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Is it because those victims are …” Spencer prompted gently.

“They’re like my father,” he finished, unsure of where this sudden bout of honesty was coming from. Maybe because he knew Spencer would never tell another soul. Aaron added, “And there’s some dark part of me that takes comfort in the deaths of the Hand Man’s victims.”

He wasn’t expecting the warm, tight embrace from Spencer. “There’s no shame in that, Aaron. No shame at all.”

However, they studiously avoided the subject of when Spencer planned to leave, but the younger man commandeered a dresser drawer, a section of Aaron’s bedroom closet, and shelf in the medicine cabinet for his things. That had to be a good sign. He even rearranged Aaron’s meager pantry and spice rack, although Aaron wondered if it was more out of late-night boredom than the need to have things organized the way Spencer wanted them.

It was late in the afternoon and Spencer was running errands. Aaron realized that it wasn't so much that they needed stuff but that Spencer didn't like to stay still... Which was odd given the inordinate amount of time the man spent on a train. _Maybe because on a train, he's actually going somewhere..._

So when there was a knock on the door, Aaron rolled his eyes because despite having a key as well as a drawer in Aaron’s dress and space in Aaron’s closet, Spencer still knocked before entering. When the door didn't open and a second knock came, Aaron realized he had a visitor. He rose from the couch where he was struggling through the latest version of Spencer’s gambling treatise, walked to the door and checked the peephole.

Morgan stood there, glancing up and down the hall, clearly taking in his surroundings. Curious as to why Morgan would be visiting, Aaron opened the door.

"Hey," Morgan said by way of greeting. "I was hoping I'd catch you."

"Come in." Aaron gestured and stepped aside. Morgan entered and, like he did in the hall, surveyed the area. It was the first time any of the team had been to Aaron's apartment. He thought knew what his place said about him but two days ago, Spencer gave an impromptu profile. It had annoyed Aaron—what the hell was that "desperate to show your masculinity and tout your success" crap all about?—but now, he was grateful. The blunt assessment actually him worry less about what Morgan actually thought. 

Allowing Morgan a few moments, Aaron closed the door before waving towards the couch. "What brings you by?"

"I know you're due back in a few days, but I wanted to give you a heads up."

Aaron immediately tensed. _Shit, what now? Did Strauss already name my replacement?_

"Is this something we need liquid fortification for?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"It's about Gideon," Morgan evaded as he turned to face Aaron. Clearly, he was waiting to see if Aaron was going to make a grab for the booze.

Aaron offered, "I can make a fresh pot of coffee."

"Yeah, coffee sounds good."

Of course, coffee meant Morgan would get further in Aaron's apartment. _All the better to profile you by, Agent Hotchner._ Aaron mentally shook his head, thankful that the door to his and Spencer's bedroom was closed, as was the guest room. He did the "nickel tour" as his Uncle Freddy was fond of calling it, pointing out the kitchen, two bedrooms and the half bath. Morgan grunted in acknowledgement as Aaron finished and began messing with the coffee maker.

"Well … It's official," Morgan began. "Gideon is no longer with the Bureau, not even as a guest lecturer. Strauss was pretty firm about it. The department's understandably shaken up. I mean, our Team gets it. Christ, that son of a bitch murdered Gideon’s girlfriend in his apartment, then uses Gideon’s murder book to track down more victims … It’s gonna fuck anyone up. Plus, we all knew that Gideon was distancing himself more and more from the BAU."

The news wasn’t earth-shattering. Aaron knew once Gideon formally resigned, the man would never set foot in Quantico again.

Aaron remained quiet as he poured the water in the coffee maker and flipped it on. Just this morning, Spencer had grumbled about 'cop shop coffee' and Aaron wondered if one of Spencer's errands was buying the single-serve Koenig machine he'd waxed on about yesterday.

There was a pause before Morgan stated, "There's talk that you're not coming back either."

That surprised Aaron, but he wouldn't put it past Strauss to start the rumor herself. He knew Morgan was watching his reaction to gauge how truthful the rumor was. "I have a psych eval on Monday," he replied. "Strauss-mandated. My reinstatement is dependent on that."

Morgan snorted. "So you'll be in the bullpen on Tuesday, making that first batch of coffee that makes me need to shave again after drinking it. Maybe your first act back as chief should be banning Griffith from making coffee. It looks like barely tinted water and tastes just as nasty."

Aaron smiled as he turned to retrieve mugs from the cabinet. "I'll be sure to include that in her performance review." 

Morgan snorted a little before clearing his throat. “While you’ve been out, we’ve been working on the Hand Man case.”

Aaron faced the other agent. “You found something.”

"We think the real Ground Zero for the Hand Man is Ocala, Florida," Morgan clarified as he sat down. "We all agreed that this UnSub was way ahead of the learning curve in Panama City. It was like he dived right in and hit the mark on the first try. Now, we've seen that, sure, but Garcia ran checks on assaults in a 250 mile radius that fit our UnSub's victimology just in case the Hand Man did some trial runs. We got a hit. Two, actually. Eight weeks prior to Panama City, a vic turned up in Ocala, Florida. Six weeks after that, Columbus, Georgia. Both victims survived."

“What was the cooling off period between Columbus and Panama City?”

“Two weeks.” Morgan leaned back in the chair. “Then, the Hand Man goes cold for ten months before he takes two victims in Memphis. He waits another nine months before taking two in Savannah. Garcia checked for guys doing jail time in the Southeast who had ties in all those cities. Nothing. This son of a bitch is elusive, I’ll give him that.”

Aaron recalled his conversation with JJ when the Panama City connection first came up. He had suggested that perhaps Nick Spaeth, the Panama City victim, was the Hand Man’s primary target. The locals got too close, and the Hand Man bolted, ending up in Memphis. He remembered discussing with the team as a possibility of why the Hand Man cooled off between Panama City and Memphis. 

Then a line from Spencer’s paper came to mind. Christ, Aaron couldn’t believe he knew it verbatim, but then again, he had spent an inordinate amount of time assisting Spencer with the damn thing. Maybe he should have been listed as co-author. 

_… like many serial killers, the injustice collector-by-proxy may work his way up to his primary target. However, once that target is eliminated, the injustice collector-by-proxy finds himself a crossroads: should he keep killing? …_

“Ocala and Columbus were his practice runs. He figured out what he did wrong so that when he went after his main target, he had the confidence to go through with the actual killing.”

“Yeah, which was followed by a cooling off period once his primary target was killed. Moving to another city and then boom! Something or someone sets him off. He kills his first vic but isn’t satisfied.”

“It wasn’t the challenge he wanted it to be …”

“So he finds himself a second victim …”

A sharp knock on the door caused Morgan to pause. Before Aaron could get to the door, however, it opened and Spencer stepped inside. 

“They had veal on sale at the market,” the younger man called out as he closed the door with one hand while a canvas shopping bag dangled from the other. When he turned and spotted Morgan and Aaron, his enthusiastic expression faltered for a second. “Morgan.”

“Hey there, Pretty Boy!” Morgan exclaimed as he got up and walked over to Spencer. 

Spencer smiled and gave that half wave, but made no move towards the other man. It was as if Spencer had regressed into that awkward rookie agent who was intimidated by older agents.

“Garcia said you that you turned the boss man into a high roller,” Morgan continued. If he picked up on Spencer’s hesitation, he didn’t let on. 

“Hotch was already a good player,” Spencer replied, not moving from the door. 

The use of his nickname jolted Aaron a little bit; he’d grown used to Spencer addressing him by his given name. Still, he knew why his lover had done it; Morgan might have been someone Spencer confided in those months before he left the Bureau, but it was clear Spencer now didn’t consider him a close friend. 

Aloud, Aaron said, “Reid taught me video poker theory. I didn’t do too badly.”

“Well, next time you decide to go off the grid,” Morgan turned to address Aaron, “be sure to tell Garcia. I do not want to think about how many databases she hacked trying to track you down.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron saw his lover twitch at Morgan’s declaration. Was it because Garcia was so aggressive in locating him? It didn’t make sense, because Spencer had spoken to Garcia while they were in Connecticut. Brushing those thoughts aside with an apologetic smile, he replied, “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Good,” Morgan declared before jutting his chin towards the map again. “We can catch up on that when you’re back in the office. I just stopped by to let you know about Gideon.” The agent glanced briefly at Spencer, as if waiting for the man’s reaction.

Spencer looked disinterested, but with Morgan’s statement, finally moved away from the door. Morgan’s gaze followed the man for a few moments before meeting Aaron’s again. “Good luck on the eval.”

“Thanks,” Aaron said drily, because they both knew evaluations could be absolutely worthless. 

“Good seeing you again, Reid,” Morgan added.

“Yeah,” the former agent said, but his tone was flat and the smile he offered to Morgan did not reach his eyes. “You, too.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed slightly—clearly he was expecting a more enthusiastic reception from Spencer—but he shrugged it off as he headed towards the door. Aaron walked over with him, they exchanged good byes, and then Morgan left.

Once the door was closed, Aaron turned and regarded his lover curiously. Spencer fiddled about in the kitchen, but Aaron could see the pensive set of the man’s shoulders. He crossed the apartment, debating the wisdom of doling out a hug, but stopped on the threshold of the kitchen. He watched Spencer for a few moments, wondering where the agitation was stemming from.

Surely, it wasn’t because he felt that Morgan was intruding. Spencer was a surprisingly possessive lover; Aaron found him staring down more than a few women while they were out together. Aaron initially thought he would be bothered it, but instead, he found that it gave him comfort. He waited a few moments before explaining, “Morgan wanted to give me a heads up before I returned. Gideon’s resignation is official. He won’t be welcomed back to the Bureau, not even to teach.”

Spencer picked up the pot of coffee and filled a mug. “Does it bother you? His accomplishments as a profiler drastically diminished by the circumstances under which he resigned?”

“They won’t be diminished, Spencer,” he replied as he leaned against the breakfast bar. At least I hope not, Aaron thought. Good God, how does anyone come back from what Jason has gone through? He watched as Spencer added sugar to his coffee. “I would hope people would understand the reasons he resigned. Breitkopf took a lot out of him.”

“Bale took more,” his lover countered quietly. 

“I’m not sure about that.” Aaron shook his head. “Bale didn’t win in the end. Jason bested him in Palm Springs. That gave him closure. Breitkopf … I know that I preach that we shouldn’t keep score but sometimes … you just can’t help it. Jason probably felt that Breitkopf won in Golconda and then again in DC.”

Spencer quirked an eyebrow at him. “You consider suicide a win?”

“Breitkopf claimed one more victim before he died,” Aaron answered. “He convinced Jane to join him and they jumped to their deaths. Yes, Jane was mentally unstable but she was aware enough to notice the change in Breitkopf. It was why she left him in the first place and sought out Gideon.” He paused for a few moments. “Out on that platform, Breitkopf won again. In the end, I guess it all stopped making sense to Jason.” 

“Or he got so deep in to the UnSub’s psyche, he couldn’t find his way out again.” 

“We all get that close, Spence,” Aaron said quietly. 

“Not you.”

“Yes, me,” he insisted, voice low as he thought about the Hand Man. “Absolutely me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~


	12. Chapter 12

_~~~~~~~~~~~_

>  _
> 
> My Dearest Aaron,
> 
> I miss you. 
> 
> As always yours,
> 
> Spencer  
>  PS – I have decided to scrap the gambling treatise in favor of one on sexual dysfunction in serial killers, specifically exploring the evolution of sexual sadism.
> 
> _

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Aaron’s return to the BAU did not begin by making the rounds in the bullpen and holding a departmental meeting to discuss the changes to the unit. Instead, he ended up in Portland with his team, investigating an UnSub who killed his victims by making them endure their greatest phobias. 

He did his job. He led his Team. 

The UnSub committed suicide rather than be taken alive.

It was harrowing to watch the man fall to his death, but the Team took it in stride. Aaron knew that here was no talking the UnSub down from the ledge. Spencer reaffirmed that conclusion as they spoke on the phone shortly after the conclusion to the case. Aaron had hoped that Spencer would be waiting for him when he got from Portland, but his lover had resumed his travels. Aaron wasn’t too fond of it—why couldn’t stay in town to do research?—yet he held his tongue.

Yes, they were lovers. Yes, Aaron could talk about his concerns with the Team (how would they recover from the loss of Gideon? Or would they simply shrug it off because they knew it was something that was a long time in coming). He could discuss cases, including the Hand Man, and Spencer listened and/or offered an opinion. There was no retaliation for bringing the Job in to the conversation. Perhaps it was because by discussing the Team, they didn’t have to address their own relationship.

It still raw and new, despite how close they had grown from the letters Spencer had sent, the phone conversations they had, and the three weeks they spent together when Aaron had been suspended. They had taken the leapt from extremely close, flirtatious friends to lovers. 

While Aaron was ready to dive head first into the relationship, Spencer was far more cautious. There was part of Aaron that didn’t blame the younger man. Good Lord, Aaron was a workaholic federal agent with control issues, who was possessive of his lover, and had an admittedly archaic mindset when it came to traditional roles. Aaron liked to believe he could overcome the latter; he just needed practice. Obviously, Spencer needed some time as well, hence the man traveling to Gainesville to attend a lecture series at the University of Florida. 

At least Spencer had finally given in on carrying a cell phone. It was a prepaid, disposable one, which given Spencer’s nomadic tendencies made some sense. They spoke every night and Spencer had even sent a short note via overnight mail to the hotel Aaron was staying at in Portland, a letter in which he announced that he was changing his focus on the paper.

Spencer’s decision to focus on sexual dysfunction was the man’s obvious way of working through his own impotence issues. So what if it was in the context of a sexual sadist? If Spencer needed to approach it from that mindset, who was Aaron to judge? 

~~~~~~~~ 

_"As for a future life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague probabilities."  
— Charles Darwin_

~~~~~~~~

Aaron was slogging through his usual morning paperwork when JJ charged into his office with a file. “The Hand Man struck again,” she announced as she handed the file to him. “Darren Shelley in Ocala, Florida. When Shelley didn’t show up for a deposition this morning, his assistant went to his home. She found him in the living room.”

He accepted the file as he thought about the conversation he had with Morgan and the plans to send some of the team to interview the three survivors of the Hand Man’s initial attacks. The Portland case plus several hot cases upon their return had delayed that strategy.

They believed Darren Shelley was the Hand Man’s first victim, one of the two who survived. Shelley’s account to police was basically worthless; the last thing he remembered was drinking at his favorite bar and then waking up in the ER. They agreed that Rohypnol or a similar drug may have played a factor given Shelley’s memory loss, although it didn’t show up in the tox reports. 

The news made Aaron think about a comment Spencer had made when he had discussed the three new victims: It was a mistake to leave those first two witnesses.

He glanced at the crime scene photos, noting that the level of violence was far below what had been meted out upon Marcheon, the last victim they knew of.

“He’s cleaning up,” Aaron concluded darkly. “Eliminating those he didn’t kill the first time.” He met JJ’s gaze. “We’ll need to call the Columbus victim, warn him that the Hand Man may be tracking him down.” He glanced down at his watch. “Wheels up in thirty.”

~~~~~~~~

Like the previous crime scenes attributed to the Hand Man, there was very little evidence. The weapon used in the attack was not left at the scene, nor were the taser or discarded booze bottles from which the victim was forced to drink during the beating.

Aaron recalled one of the many discussions he had with Spencer about the case. Spencer stated that while it seemed counter-intuitive for the UnSub to force the victim to drink so much alcohol that it diminished the pain of the beatings, it was the UnSub’s way of establishing dominance. “He controls when, what and how much they drink. It was reported that all the victims’ clothing were soaked in alcohol and only one didn’t have vomit on his shirt. The UnSub forces them drink. If the victim refuses, he is hit. The violence is twofold: retribution for the beatings the victim inflicted on his oldest sons as well as exerting complete tyrannical control over the victim. Oh. And the UnSub forces the victims to drink the cheap stuff.”

He circled the living room where Shelley had been bound and beaten, wondering what ruse the Hand Man used to gain entrance to the home. There were no signs of struggle, no forced doors or windows of any kind.

“Hey, Hotch, I think I found something,” Morgan called out as he entered the room. 

“What is it?” Aaron asked.

“Shelley had an appointment listed on his e-Calendar with Alex Dufresne from seven to nine last night. There are no attachments in the appointment and I searched his email, but that name doesn’t pop up,” Morgan explained. “I checked the mess on his desk as well. Nothing on Dufresne, but there was an envelope with three hundred bucks tossed on top of everything. Garcia’s working on an address as we speak.”

“What if that’s part of his ruse? He engages his victims to do work for him, outside the office. It could be an informal consultation, money under the table.”

“That explains the cash. Dufresne tells his victims he doesn’t want to be seen at a lawyer’s office.” Morgan’s then phone rang and he answered with, “Whatcha got for me, Baby Girl? You’re on speaker.”

“Well, crime fighters, Alexander Dufresne was born and raised in just north of Ocala and took numerous trips to ER from ages five to eleven … When he was eleven, Mom died of injuries resulting from a car accident caused by his dad,” she rattled off. “Dad was driving her back from a party in which everyone swears he didn’t have that much to drink … After that … hmm … Alex stopped visiting the ER … At eighteen, he enrolled at University of Florida where he was majoring in pre-law. Dropped out his sophomore year after his daddy—a lawyer himself—died of alcohol poisoning. He received two millions dollar from his dad’s life insurance policy and another half-mil when he sold his dad’s home.”

“Where does he live now?” Hotch prompted, excitement racing through him as he mentally Dufresne’s background with the Hand Man profile.

“32195 East Metairie, Unit 23 according to his most recent cell phone bill and bank statements … he goes paperless, by the way,” she replied. “Sending you his pic from the DMV.”

“What about other utilities? Rent?”

“Nada, my fine chocolate stallion.”

“He pays in cash,” Hotch concluded, “and his utilities may be covered by the landlord.”

“Oh!” Garcia suddenly exclaimed. “Okay, this is totes creepy, my dynamic agent-y duo. That address? It’s a storage unit.”

Hotch and Morgan looked at each other. Morgan shook his head, “Tell me it can’t be that easy.”

“Let’s hope it is.”

~~~~~~~

Storage Heaven Ocala was a gated self-service storage facility that proudly declared it was accessible 24/7. It wasn’t as run down as Hotch and Morgan were expecting, but they both noted the distinct lack of obvious security cameras around the property. The woman working the front office didn’t seem too surprised when Hotch and Morgan flashed their badges and delivered the search warrant for Unit 23. 

“We get those at least once a week,” the woman who only gave her first name—Tisha—scoffed at them. “Usually the local cops, not FBI.” 

“We’ll need the rental records from Unit 23,” Hotch told her. 

Tisha rolled her eyes before rolling her chair to a set of filing cabinets. She pulled open a drawer, pawed through the contents, and pulled out a file. She tossed it on the counter. “The unit’s a twenty by thirty with AC.”

Quickly, Aaron scanned the contents of the file. The application was typed, not hand written. The signature was more of a bumpy line than an actual signature. The file showed the unit had been rented for the 26 months at the negotiated rate of $324 per month. The records showed that Dufresne paid either by cash or money order. There was no indication if the payments were hand delivered or mailed. 

When he asked if she had met Dufresne, Tisha shrugged. “People don’t stop here, agent, until there’s a problem with the unit. This guy? He pays on time.”

“You don’t have a copy of his driver’s license.”

“We don’t require it.”

“What about security cameras?”

“They know they’re storing at their own risk.” She grabbed a set of bolt cutters from behind the desk and handed them to Morgan. “You’ll need these.” Tisha then got out from behind the desk and lead them out of the office. Once outside, she immediately lit up a cigarette.

Morgan and Hotch exchanged looks; it was easy to see why Dufresne chose this particular storage company. They walked behind Tisha, scanning the area as they went. Unit 23 was a peninsula storage unit in that the door was on the end cap facing the metal louvered fence instead of other units. The drive in front was wide enough for two cars to pass. Hotch wondered if the location of the storage unit was more important than the actual size. 

Once there, the first thing they noticed was that the lock was off the unit. They then heard the muffled sounds from inside.

Were they that lucky? Was Dufresne inside?

“Step back, ma’am,” Morgan ordered as he pulled his weapon. Tisha rolled her eyes again and sauntered to the other end cap unit, finishing one cigarette and starting on a second.

Hotch had his Glock ready as well, and moved to the side of the door. Morgan went to the other, flexing his free hand over the pull on the front of the door. With his hand, Hotch counted them down from three to one. As he signaled ‘one,’ he called out, “Alex Dufresne? FBI!”

When there was no response, Morgan yanked upwards on the pull and the door quickly rolled up. 

The overhead light was on. A moped was parked to one side. A television was tuned to the local news which continuing its nonstop coverage of Shelley’s murder. Above it, a five foot by five foot portion of one wall was covered in news articles and maps.

In the middle and facing the covered wall and television, was a comfortable looking recliner. 

And there, passed out in the recliner, was a man who bore a striking resemblance to the DMV photo of Alex Dufresne. He cradled an empty bottle of vodka in one hand.

Cautiously, Hotch and Morgan approached. They called out to Dufresne but the man didn’t respond.

 _Don’t tell me he drank himself to death,_ Hotch thought as he stepped closer to the man. Yet one look told Hotch all he needed to know.

Alex Dufresne was dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was anticlimactic. 

Really. It was.

All the evidence to prove Alex Dufresne was the Hand Man was neatly organized in Unit 23 of Storage Heaven Ocala. Maps. Travel plans. Matchbooks from various cities. Press coverage not only of the Panama City, Memphis and Savannah victims, but six more victims that the BAU hadn’t connected to him. Each victim had a file detailing their families, their habits, their court convictions, their mistresses, their daily routines, photos of them and their bars they frequented. There was a lock box with over ten thousand dollars in cash stashed away.

They found a discarded bottle of prescription Trazodone, an old-school anti-depressant that was sometimes prescribed to treat insomnia. Hotch and Morgan concluded at the scene that Dufresne more than likely committed suicide.

Had he realized he made a mistake by going back from Shelley?

More than likely.

The evidence was so compelling, that they had Detzel—the only remaining living victim—to let him know that the Hand Man was no longer a threat. They wrapped up the case within four hours of discovering Dufresne’s body; once the paperwork with the local PD and DA was completed, they were back on the jet, heading to Quantico.

Yet, instead of the triumph that he usually felt when a case like the Hand Man’s was solved, Hotch felt a bit of emptiness and dissatisfaction.

It felt way too easy. Way too easy.

It was also too damn neat.

He stared at the list of victims and the timeline he’d written down. 

_• Ocala, FL – Darren Shelley – 1st assault_  
• Columbus, GA – Todd Detzel – 2nd assault, 8 weeks post Meridian  
• Panama City, FL – Nick Spaeth – 1st murder, 2 weeks post-Columbus  
• Hartford, CT – Douglas Chesney – 2nd murder, 9 weeks post-Panama City  
• Memphis, TN – Baysworth – 3rd murder, 4 weeks post-Hartford  
• Memphis, TN – Wagener – 4th murder, 3 days post-Baysworth  
• Hattiesburg, MS – Overson – 5th murder, 4 weeks post-Memphis  
• Los Angeles, CA – Carlyle – 6th murder, 11 weeks post-Hattiesburg  
• Santa Cruz, CA – Penderton – 7th murder, 3 weeks post-LA  
• Columbus, OH – O’Neill – 8th murder, 10 weeks post-Santa Cruz  
• Savannah, GA – Brightwell – 9th murder, 3 weeks post-Columbus  
• Savannah, GA – Marcheon, Sr. – 10th murder, 3 days post-Brightwell  
• Ocala, FL – Shelley, 11th murder 

“Hey,” Morgan said softly, tapping Hotch’s shoulder as he sat down in the seat across from him. With two less people on the jet, there was ample room to spread out. JJ and Griffith were at the back of the jet, which was probably the only reason why Morgan approached.

Hotch didn’t bother hiding the list; instead, he tossed it on the small table between them.

Morgan glanced at it briefly. “All that work we did … all that time we put it … and the UnSub ODs.”

Hotch hitched an eyebrow, an invitation to talk, but didn’t say anything.

The other agent’s voice was pitched low. “Remember my third case with the BAU? It was the one in Hagerstown, Maryland where Varner Sager killed his victims and then tied them to the railway track. We worked that thing for months and it all came down to a B&E at Sager’s garage where the robber stumbled across what was to be Sager’s next victim, Tina Bruchey. The guy alerted police, who just walked into Sager’s house and arrested him. Bruchey’s eyewitness testimony sealed the case.”

“And the reason you’re telling me this?” Hotch prompted, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

“Because afterward, I was pissed because it didn’t feel that we did anything. And you know what you told me? There isn’t always going to be a shootout or a rundown or a high speed chase. We don’t always have to dismantle a bomb or talk the UnSub down from the ledge. Sometimes, it’s that damn easy.”

Hotch snorted. It was a speech he often gave to newbies to the unit, ones who had grown up watching cop shows and sometimes thought all cases would end dramatically, just like on TV. He wasn’t going to explain his gut feelings to Morgan. Maybe he would say something to Spencer when his lover returned home. Instead, he said, “Point taken. A win’s a win.”

He hated that it didn’t feel like one.

~~~~~~~


	13. Chapter 13

~~~~~~~

> _My dearest Aaron,_
> 
> _My warmest congratulations to you on the resolution of the Hand Man case!_
> 
> _I hope the end to this case eases some of the burden from your shoulders._
> 
> _I look forward to meeting up with you in DC to review my latest research. The professor from the University of Florida recommended that I speak with his colleague at the University of Milwaukee, who studied the Dahmer case extensively._
> 
> _Traveling by rail translates into a 48 hour trip utilizing the Silver Meteor, Capitol Limited and Hiawatha Services. However, when I think of the Capitol Limited, I remember our exquisite time together as we traveled from Philadelphia to Chicago. I don’t wish to spoil those memories with a subpar experience, hence my decision to travel by commercial air to Milwaukee._
> 
> _Once I book my flights, I will let you know. I plan to return to Washington and I hope we will have ample time to discuss my findings._
> 
> _As always yours,_
> 
> _Spencer_

~~~~~~~

Hotch drank the last dredges of coffee as he exited the elevator and headed towards the BAU. The distinct click-clack of high heels on the polished linoleum caught his attention, and he watched as Garcia bounded up to him, waiving a folder.

"Good! You’re here! Remember that wacko case in Providence?" she asked.

“Which one?” he asked because, Christ, they had wacko cases everywhere. 

"The one where the UnSub killed adulterous couples by tampering with their furnaces," she clarified and held out the file. 

Hotch nodded as he accepted it. The internal name they had given the UnSub was the Mission Gasser. It was another cold case for them. 

“Well, Mister Gassy turned up in Madison, Wisconsin,” she told him. “Gas furnace like the first set, but the locals didn’t indicate if our Scarlet Letter folks were posed or not. Crime scene photos start on page three. Since there was only one couple instead of two, I expanded my search to see if there were any other accidental deaths or carbon monoxide poisonings in the area. So far, none.”

“Good work,” he complimented as he skimmed the report for the victims' professions. The male victim was a personal trainer, and Hotch couldn’t help but think about one of Haley’s lovers. When he read the next part, he felt queasy. Wife of a defense attorney. 

Hadn’t one of Haley’s lovers someone she met from the gym? It was a little ‘too close to home,’ but Hotch forced himself to push those feelings aside. The divorce was finalized six months ago, and he was happily in a relationship with Spencer. He knew better than to let past inadequacies bring him down.

"Hotch?"

"Sorry," he said. "When did this happen again?"

"Two days ago.”

“Call the rest of the team. Wheels up in forty.”

~~~~~~

“The bodies weren’t posed this time,” Hotch commented as he circled the bedroom where the latest victims—Doug Owens and Brittany Maheau—were found. “Yet CSI recovered the same type of rope used in the Providence murders by the left nightstand. The UnSub intended to position and bind them, but didn’t. Why?”

“The UnSub didn’t have time,” JJ suggested. “The coroner put time of death at six AM and the locals said trash pickup in that neighborhood starts at seven. What if our victims took longer to die than our UnSub anticipated? Didn’t Detective Shuman say that it was a newer furnace? We agreed that the UnSub stalked his victims extensively, so he knew the neighbors’ routines as well as he knew his victims’. He had to leave before being seen.”

Hotch nodded as he continued to pace. He walked out to the hallway and looked up at the smoke detector affixed to the ceiling. He pulled out his mag light and flipped it on so he could better examine the detector. It was a higher-end one, one that was also a carbon monoxide detector and had a power light, which was off. He flashed the light down on the carpeting and saw four indentations that could have been made by a chair. He was surprised that they were still visible, given the heavy traffic through the area in the past two days.

The door to one of the guest rooms was open and Hotch spotted a chair that matched the dining room set downstairs. What was it doing up here? He pulled out his cell phone and took a photo of the carpeting and then the chair. There was also a footstool in the room, but its legs were too wide to match. Pulling gloves on, he got the chair from the room and held it over where the marks on the carpet were, but didn’t set it down. However, he could tell that the chair legs matched the imprints. He put the chair back.

When he exited the room, JJ was standing in the doorway of the master bedroom staring at him curiously.

“The smoke detector also has a carbon monoxide alarm,” he explained as he flashed his light on the ceiling. “The power light isn’t on. Whoever disabled it may have brought a chair from downstairs up here to be able to reach it. There’s a footstool in the room as well. Why not use that instead of bringing a chair upstairs?” He stood over the detector and tried to touch it, his fingers barely brushing the device.

“The UnSub was too short,” JJ replied as she took a step closer to him. “And maybe that could be another reason why these victims weren’t posed. Owens, the personal trainer, was a solid two-twenty and Maheau was one-seventy. Dead weight is much more difficult to move. He wasn’t strong enough to move them.”

“She wasn’t strong enough,” Hotch corrected quietly as he turned off his flashlight and slid it back in his coat pocket. He met JJ’s eyes. “We need to update the profile.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay, my intrepid crime fighters,” Garcia’s voice seemed to boom from the phone in the conference room, “I did a bit more searching on our Mister Furnace Fiend.”

“Missus Furnace Fiend, Baby Girl,” Morgan called out. “Our UnSub’s a woman and we’re betting she’s married.”

She gave a little whistle of surprise before continuing, “Okay, Missus Furnace Fiend’s MO turned up in Toledo, Ohio and in Trenton, New Jersey. Both couples were reported as accidental deaths and the press never made a big deal that the couples found in bed were not married to each other.”

“When did these happen?”

“Toledo was three months after Providence,” Garcia answered. “Trenton was two months after Toledo.”

JJ went over to the whiteboard and added the new dates to the timeline. “There wasn’t a fourteen month cooling off period,” she said as she put the dry erase marker down. “It was only nine months.”

“But wait! There’s more!” Garcia told them. “It turns out that the wives of our male victims knew about their hubbies’ under-the-cover pastimes. They belonged to the same online forum and, boy, did they air their laundry! They used pseudonyms, of course, but one thing the ladies from Trenton, Toledo and Madison have in common?” She paused dramatically, “Their husbands’ paramours were all wives of attorneys.”

“Our UnSub found her type,” Morgan said as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s why she takes so long between kills. She’s waiting for the right combination, one that matches her situation.”

“But she also establishes a rapport with these women,” Griffith said. “She uses it to justify what she’s doing. These upstanding women have been wronged and she believes she is giving these women justice by murdering their adulterous husbands.”

An injustice collector, Hotch thought to himself. An injustice collector who is working up to her main target … What’s taking her so long? She’s clearly perfected her method … Aloud, he asked, “Garcia, could you forward those messages?” 

“On their way to your inbox as we speak, my captain!”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch looked over at JJ and Griffith. “Once we review the messages, I want you two to talk with Mrs. Owens. We’ll need access to her private messages on the forums and personal emails as well. Our UnSub probably contacted her directly, befriending her and using that as a way to gather information on her target.”

“What about the rest of the women?”

Hotch grimaced. “We’ll have to do the same with them, and hope that they didn’t clean out their inboxes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Six hours later, the Team sat at the conference table as Garcia joined them via webcam. 

“Thanks to JJ’s silver tongue and Griffith’s super-sleuthing skills, not the mention my amazing talent for untangling the World Wide Web, we have a suspect!” Garcia grinned “The online persona of Pearl Ecarlate is none other than Marsha Murphy of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania!”

“Fits the geographic profile,” Griffith added with a smile. 

“What can you tell us about her?” Hotch prompted.

“Up until two years ago, she was the wife of one Marcus Murphy, Esquire. Esquire was a prominent Pittsburgh defense attorney, with quite a few prominent clients,” Garcia answered as her image was replaced by the driver’s licenses of the Murphys. “Alas, Mr. Murphy died from carbon monoxide poisoning due to a faulty furnace. Mrs. Murphy wasn’t home at the time—she was at a Girls Weekend Getaway—but it wasn’t her who reported Mr. Murphy’s trip to the Other Side. It was Mr. Murphy’s admin, Gina Scalari, who just happened to be in the house that weekend and, would you look at that? She was treated for carbon monoxide poisoning! The coroner ruled Mr. Murphy’s death accidental, and no charges were brought against Mrs. Murhpy. However, Ms. Scalari claimed that the missus offed the mister and tried to off her.”

“So Scalari was having an affair with him,” Morgan ventured.

“Oh, nothing was ever said aloud, my dearest cocoa profiler,” Garcia replied. “Yet, in true Days of Our Lives fashion, the mister was in the process of filing for divorce from the missus. And he completed but not did not file changes to his wills and life insurance so that Ms. Scalari would be the beneficiary.”

“And the locals gave a pass to Marsha Murphy?” Griffith asked in disbelief.

“It’s the grieving widow versus the scheming mistress,” JJ stated with a shrug. “It’s a plausible death. Murphy got away with it, so she offers her services to others.”

“And before you say, ‘but it’s all circumstantial evidence,’” Garcia went on, “Mrs. Murphy left an electronic trail so clear than even a technophobe can follow it.”

Hotch digested the information, wondering if it all could be so easy. He weighed his options and knew that he couldn’t travel to Pittsburgh to interrogate Mrs. Murphy. He was sure she had a high-powered defense attorney on call, one who would use Hotch’s disastrous personal life to his advantage.

“JJ, you and Griffith head to Pittsburgh. Bring Murphy in for questioning. We’ll finish up here.”

JJ looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. “Let’s go, Beth.”

~~~~~~~~~~


	14. Chapter 14

~~~~~~~~~~

> _My dearest Aaron,_
> 
> _I bid you greetings from Black River Falls, Wisconsin. Congratulations on solving the Scarlet Letter Widower case! Such an odd name that the press came up with, but I digress. Had I realized that you were working in Madison, I would have joined you for the celebration._
> 
> _It's a shame that Marsha Murphy took her own life before you could apprehend her, but I hope that the conclusion of the case helps ease your mind._
> 
> _… I look forward to spending time with you next week. I've missed you terribly._
> 
> _As always yours,_
> 
> _Spencer_

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thankfully, the weekend that Spencer decided to return to DC coincided with four straight days of downtime for the BAU. Aaron insisted on picking Spencer up from the airport, going so far as to hold a sign that read "Doctor Reid" as he stood in the baggage claim area of Reagan National.

When Spencer saw him, his eyes lit up and he grinned widely. They didn't kiss, but Aaron found himself holding on a bit longer when Spencer embraced him. During the drive from the airport to Aaron's apartment, Aaron was expecting his lover to deluge him with his research and the drafts of his treatise. Spencer was brimming with excitement, but focused the conversation exclusively on the Hand Man and Mission Gasser aka the Scarlet Letter Widower.

Aaron kept his answers concise, trying his best not to allow his frustration flavor his tone. It went on for about ten minutes before Spencer asked, "You solved the cases, Aaron …"

He stared at the traffic ahead of them. He debated on voicing his true feelings, then wondering why he was holding back from Spencer. According to Haley, one of his biggest flaws was that he didn't share himself. At the time, he had justified it by stating he didn't want her exposed to the gruesomeness of his job. One person in the house having nightmares was bad enough.

Yet Spencer had lived it. Spencer knew. Spencer understood. Spencer had nightmares just like every member of the BAU endured. Aaron could say something like, "The smell of fish nauseates me," and Spencer would immediately understand. He wouldn't ask why. He would simply accept the statement.

Because of those reasons, Aaron sighed, "They didn't feel right, Spence."

"How do you mean?"

"We've been tracking down the Hand Man for twenty-six months," he explained. "Twenty-six months that this man has outwitted us, always staying one step ahead. And then, in Ocala, boom! We catch him. Correction: we stumble across a name in the victim's calendar, find three hundred bucks on the victim's desk, and discover that the UnSub has OD'd in his storage unit."

"One would say luck was on your side."

"You don't believe in luck, Spence," he snapped.

"I don't, but you do."

The succinct reply tempered his anger. He let out a sigh. "The point is that when I got to that storage unit … saw what was inside …" Aaron shook his head. "It was too perfect." He spared a glance over and noted the surprised expression on his lover's face, so he clarified, "Everything was there, Spence. Everything. His research. His list of victims. Google maps of the bars the victims frequented. If there was a checklist of items needed to convince the local PD and DA that this was the UnSub and we didn't need to continue the investigation, it hit on every point."

"And you're upset about it."

"I'm … I'm …" Frustration made him hit the steering wheel. "Morgan gave me the 'take the win for what it is' speech. Do you have any idea how fucking annoying that is?"

"Yes."

It was meant as a rhetorical question but Spencer's answer stopped him short. Of course he would know. How many times had Aaron delivered that speech to the younger man? Probably a shit ton, because in those early months Spencer was in the bureau, Aaron had felt the man didn't have the emotional maturity to handle it when a case seemed to solve itself. "Jesus, Spence, I'm sorry."

"I know why you say it, Aaron," his lover countered gently, "especially nowadays when it seems that every rookie agent believes their lives will now be a wild mix of CSI, Cold Case, Law & Order, Without a Trace, and whatever other crime drama is out there. I wasn't like that, so yes, I found it annoying. I can also see why it was so grating to you. I bet Morgan brought up the first time you gave him that speech."

"He did."

"And suddenly you were wondering, 'since when does my subordinate console me after a case?'"

The statement made him laugh a little. "Guilty as charged."

"So what is it about the case that's bothering you so much?"

The direct question made Aaron pause. He thought for a few seconds before admitting, "Dufresne fit the profile almost perfectly. Abusive, alcoholic father who was an attorney. His father was never convicted of the DUI that killed his mother … there were so many things right about the profile."

"But?" Spencer prompted after Aaron fell silent.

"How he staged the crime scenes … it wasn't something he just picked up from reading a book or watching TV or even interviewing current or former cops. The UnSub left just enough evidence … nothing conclusive … but just enough so that when we caught Dufresne, everything seemed to fall into place."

"When you say, 'left just enough evidence' what do you mean?"

Relieved that Spencer wasn't dismissing his comments, Aaron clarified, "Small things. Little things. We found half a matchbook cover at Baysworth's crime scene—he was the first Memphis kill—and the other half turned up at Dufresne's storage unit. There was the empty bottle of Hell's Den vodka found at Brightwell's crime scene—he was the first Savannah victim—in an area where you can't get that brand of vodka. Yet we found receipts at Dufresne's unit for that brand purchased in Atlanta less than twenty-four hours before Brightwell was murdered." He let out a sigh. "I'm sure as the DA goes through all the evidence, he'll be able to tie each of the murders back to something that discovered in Dufresne's storage unit. That's the thing."

"It sounds as if Dufresne was leaving souvenirs."

Aaron let out a deep breath. "But why? As careful as Dufresne was with every other aspect to the crime scene, why leave something that could concretely connect him to the crimes?"

"He was being too clever."

Aaron blinked. "Clever? No. Dufresne was so precise about the crime scenes in every other aspect. It doesn't make sense, Spence. He's doing everything else right in order not to get caught. Sure, he has his signature, the mutilation of his victims' right hand. Like I said before, everything else about the crime scene is practical …" He let out a frustrated sigh. "We profiled that the UnSub has knowledge of law enforcement, that he understands exactly how a crime scene is processed and knows what detectives look for, yet Dufresne didn't have that background. Neither did Marsha Murphy."

"Dufresne was studying to be prosecutor, wasn't he? And Murphy was a wife of attorney. It's plausible she could have picked up that information from her husband's work."

"Dufresne was pre-law, majoring in psychology. None of his course work was in criminology," Aaron replied. "Murphy's husband specialized in corporate law. He would not have been exposed to that type of prosecution."

"They still could have researched …"

"Spence, it's like saying that I can setup a complex experiment in a chem lab at CalTech because I took a chemistry class or two in high school and college. You can, because you've done it. You have practical experience," he insisted, "not just book knowledge."

"So you don't consider either case closed?"

"The Bureau says they are."

"That's not the question I asked."

Aaron pressed his lips together. Finally, "No. I don't consider them closed."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment Aaron closed and locked the apartment door, Spencer pounced him. He was pushed back against the door as Spencer delivered a searing kiss. Aaron immediately dropped his briefcase and the strap of his go bag slipped off his shoulder, the bag crashing to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Spencer.

God, it felt so good to have him back.

He felt his suit jacket being pushed off his shoulders, so he released his hold on Spencer, allowing the garment to slide down his arms. Spencer pulled him forward by his belt loops, which caused the jacket to fall to the floor. His lover then swiftly undid Aaron's tie, pulled it from his collar, and tossed it to the side. He did all this as he continued to kiss Aaron aggressively. Next, Spencer worked on the buttons of Aaron's shirt.

Aaron managed to turn his head to the side. He broke the kiss as he panted, "I'm armed," because of all the things that could be running through his head, the possibility of his Glock—which was safely holstered and clipped to his belt—going off was suddenly the number one thing.

Spencer grabbed Aaron's hand and pulled it towards his crotch. Aaron felt his lover's rock hard cock.

"So am I," Spencer chuckled wickedly as he rocked against Aaron's hand. 

He laughed at the joke as as he gently squeezed and rubbed his lover's dick. Relief poured through him, matching his desire and passion.

"Want to do something about it?"

"Yes," Aaron breathed, and it was his turn to thread his free hand in Spencer's hair and crash their lips together. He pushed forward with his upper body, determined to back the man into their bedroom.

Their bedroom. Because it was.

 

The sentiment caused Aaron to groan as he managed to navigate them through the living room and inside their bedroom. Spencer continued to work on Aaron’s shirt before yanking the tails up and out of Aaron’s trousers. Aaron stopped moving forward when he felt Spencer suddenly stop and almost topple backwards. He knew they must have hit the bed. 

Then, Aaron began licking and nibbling Spencer’s jaw and down his throat. Spencer hastily removed his shirt and vest and once the younger man’s upper body was bared, Aaron kissed his way down. He knelt in front of Spencer and nuzzled Spencer’s hard cock through the fine wool fabric of Spencer’s trousers.

His heart raced, thrilled for his lover. He unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned the pants and pulled the zipper down. Spencer helped by pushing his underwear and trousers down off his hips until the stopped at mid-thigh. Aaron planted kisses on the tops of Spencer’s thighs, before looking up and meeting his lover’s gaze. The passion he found in Spencer’s eyes was stunning as was the lustful way Spencer bit his lower lip.

In all the times Aaron had fondled or sucked Spencer’s cock, Spencer was always on his back. It was always first thing in the morning when Spencer was just waking up. This? This was something totally new for Aaron.

He kissed the tip of Spencer’s leaking cock before tonguing the shaft. Spencer’s carded his fingers in Aaron’s hair as he murmured, “Please …”

So Aaron took Spencer’s cock in his mouth, sliding down until the tip hit the back of his throat. Spencer cried out, lifting up on his toes for a brief second before widening his stance.

“Suck me,” Spencer ordered breathlessly.

Aaron obeyed.

The only sounds in the bedroom were Spencer’s gasps of pleasure and the sloppy slurping as Aaron worked his lover cock with his mouth. As much as he wanted this to last, he knew by the grip his lover had on his skull that Spencer needed the release. Aaron’s jaw began to ache sharply, his eyes watering from the pain. 

“Use your hand,” Spencer told him.

Once his hand was wrapped around Spencer’s dick and he sucked on just the tip, Spencer began shallow thrusts. Both hands held Aaron’s head steady as his lover rocked faster and faster. Aaron knew Spencer was close by the hitches in the man’s breathing.

He closed his eyes, giving it everything he had.

Spencer came with a shout, arching as Aaron worked the head of his cock with his lips, milking him the same way Spencer did him.

When Spencer suddenly pulled away, Aaron released him, knowing how sensitive his own dick got when Spencer pulled that trick on him. What he wasn’t expecting was Spencer to pull his head back and then kiss him hard, tongue invading Aaron’s mouth as he tasted himself.

Spencer broke the kiss as he said, “I going to ride your cock.”

Aaron only nod as he shakily got to his feet. He thanked whatever deities were listening that Spencer seemed to conquer his problem; maybe five weeks of research was the best way for Spencer. Quickly, he undressed and secured his weapons, watching as Spencer shed the rest of his own clothes and pulled back the covers to the bed. Once naked, Aaron pulled out a condom and the lube, popping the cap open on the latter.

“In the bed,” Spencer commanded him, pointed to the mattress.

Aaron obeyed, settling on his back in the middle. His cock strained for attention, precum dripping on his belly. He was surprised when Spencer crawled into the bed next to him and straddled his hips.

“I need to …” Aaron began.

Spencer pressed a finger to Aaron’s lips with one hand, while picking up the condom and lube with the other. “I stretched myself already, Aaron.”

Confused, Aaron was about to say something when the condom and lube were dropped near his elbow. With that same hand, Spencer reached behind him, leaned forward, wriggled and then let out a shuddering breath. He settled back on his haunches and held up a glistening piece of plastic. It took a few seconds for Aaron to realize that Spencer had used a butt plug, and once he did, he rolled his hips and pleaded with his gaze.

Spencer nodded, a lusty grin on his face as he rolled the condom on Aaron’s aching dick. He was slicked down with lube next before Spencer positioned himself. Then, Spencer impaled himself with one swift motion, causing Aaron to cry out. He tried to place his hands on Spencer’s hips, but Spencer grabbed his wrists and pinned them to either side of his head.

His lover then began rocking but barely created any friction. It was Aaron’s turn to plead, “Please, more …”

Spencer squeezed Aaron’s wrists as he leaned forward, capturing Aaron’s mouth in yet another kiss before leaning back. 

Then, his lover started a brutal pace, lifting himself up and slamming himself down on Aaron’s cock. Aaron whined and moaned as pleasure surged through him. Of all the times he had sex, Aaron never felt as fully owned as he did with Spencer tonight. Spencer’s eyes were bright with passion as he rode Aaron’s cock harder and faster. 

When Aaron climaxed, he shouted Spencer’s name as pleasure crashed through his system. For a few moments, Aaron’s mind went blank and instead of being unnerved by it, he welcomed it. 

And sometime during Aaron’s post-orgasmic stupor, Spencer whispered, “I figured it out, Aaron,” as he curled around him. “I figured it out.”

“I know,” Aaron murmured as pulled his lover closer. “I know.”

~~~~~~~~

It was one of the oddest post-sex conversations Aaron had ever had. There were so many other things to talk about—how Spencer overcame his ED was at the top of Aaron's list—that when Spencer focused exclusive on the Hand Man, Aaron wasn't quite sure how to respond. While there was one part of him that just wanted to drop the subject entirely, there was part pleased that Spencer was willing to discuss it with him, to help him figure out why he couldn't accept the resolution.

"You said the Hand Man made a mistake," Spencer began as he twirled Aaron's chest hair around one of his fingers, "which of course he did. He didn't check Shelley's computer to see if his victim had made an entry on his eCalendar. He left the three hundred dollars on Shelley's desk."

"Rookie mistakes."

"What do you mean?"

Aaron hitched an eyebrow as he looked at his lover. "Shelley was the Hand Man's eleventh murder victim, his fourteenth overall if you count the first assault separately. I don't think it was complacency on the Hand Man's part either. He handed Shelley the money. He knew that Shelley took it in to his home office. After he killed Shelley, why didn't he retrieve it?"

"He left in a hurry."

"But he cleaned everything else up, Spence," Aaron countered. "He took the murder weapon and the bottles of booze he forced Shelley to drink. Why wouldn't he take the extra few minutes to pick up the cash and check Shelley's computer?"

"He didn't want to wait for it to boot up?"

"It was already on."

"Oh."

Aaron rolled to his side as he realized something else. "We didn't find the murder weapon in the storage unit."

"He disposed of it on his way there."

"Why? The unit was private, secure. It's where he kept everything else. Why risk it?"

"He panicked."

"But why?" Aaron insisted. "This isn't his first. This is his eleventh. The Hand Man is meticulous. He plans. He knows Shelley is divorced, that no one was expecting him until nine the next morning. He met with Shelley at seven in the evening, which gave him plenty of time to torture and kill Shelley."

"Doesn't Shelley have mistresses? What if one stopped by his house?"

"Fair enough. But that would still be between nine and midnight that night or seven and nine the next morning," he contended. "When Shelley didn't answer the door, the woman would have probably given up. She also would have called first, and there's no record of incoming calls that evening. The Hand Man had plenty of time." He rolled to his side, facing his lover. "Which brings me to why Dufresne committed suicide. Again, it doesn't make sense. By killing Shelley, we assume that Hand Man planned to go back to his first two victims to eliminate them as witnesses."

"Why doesn't it make sense? He went back to his list and started from the beginning."

"Let's say I'm the Hand Man," Aaron began. "Marcheon was my last victim. I chose him because he was the biggest prize out there. I get away with it. I'm untouchable, unstoppable. I've outwitted local, state and federal authorities. However I realize that they may discover the two victims that, for whatever reason, I allowed to live. They are my Achilles heel, and the only choice I have is to eliminate them as witnesses."

"But they were dosed, Aaron," Spencer said quietly.

"I never said they were dosed."

"I have an eidetic memory," his lover countered primly. "I remember what you say."

Momentarily confused, because none of the reports regarding the two assault victims mentioned anything about Rohypnol or similar substances, Aaron could only nod. He didn't remember floating the theory to Spencer, but obviously he must have.

"Anyway … even though the victims can't recall the evenings' events clearly, I—the Hand Man—am not going to take chances now," Aaron continued his narrative. "Ocala is where I started. It's where I have my shrine of my kills so I can relive them in privacy. I know that once I kill one of them, the FBI will be on the case because I am compelled to kill him in the same manner as the others. Why would I risk my home base right away?

"The FBI has only connected me to five murders; the other five are considered unsolved homicides by the local police. I know that. I've been following the cases religiously. Why would I think that the FBI knows about Shelley and Detzel?"

"Paranoia." Spencer fiddled with the sheet for a few moments. He then sat up, his back against the headboard. "I realize that when the BAU is called in about Shelley's murder, they are going to alert the remaining living victim and set up a trap. I can only feasibly dispose of one victim, so I chose the person I started this journey with."

"No," Aaron said as he got out of bed. "I'm a mission-based killer and I'm cleaning house. I'm not going to stop until I've completed my mission."

"But all the evidence indicates that Dufresne was working alone," he protested.

It was as if the missing piece finally fell into place. Aaron realized why the case bothered him so much. "Because that's what the dominant partner wanted us to think. Detzel is still a viable target." Aaron grabbed his boxers from off the floor and checked the clock on the nightstand. "How far is Columbus, Georgia from Atlanta?"

"One hundred eight miles."

"Atlanta's the busiest airport. We have the best shot of getting a flight there tonight. We'll drive to Columbus tonight and re-interview Detzel first thing tomorrow."

"Aaron …"

"Come with me. Please."

His lover paled as he fisted the sheets. "Don't do this, Aaron."

"I have to."

Spencer rocketed out of bed and over to Aaron. He grabbed his wrists, squeezing hard as Aaron tried to pull away. "Please, Aaron. Don't."

Aaron met his gaze, stunned to see the outright panic in his lover's eyes, but it didn't override his need to get to Columbus, Georgia. "Detzel is in danger."

"He's not."

"The dominant partner …"

"… is just a theory because you can't accept that the case was resolved so easily."

"I'm going to Georgia tonight, Spencer, with or without you."

His lover abruptly released him, shoulders slumping. "Don't do this, Aaron."

"I need to know, Spencer. Please, tell me you understand that much of it."

Spencer looked away. "I do."

"Then go with me."

When his lover met his gaze again, his eyes were wet. "You won't like the answers you're going to find."

"Maybe I won't, Spencer, but I need those answers."

~~~~~~~

_"It is impossible to love and to be wise." – Sir Francis Bacon_

~~~~~~~

They had two discussions prior to leaving for the airport once Spencer agreed to go with Aaron: the first was over Spencer's firearm. Aaron was surprised that his lover carried a .38 Smith 65 3' revolver, tucked away in his satchel, of all the goddamn, unsecured places.

"I'm not going there unarmed," Spencer told him flatly.

"You mean to tell me, you've been carrying a weapon with you all this time?"

"I have a permit, Aaron."

"If you need a piece, use my backup," Aaron offered. "You're a good shot with it." The little joke did not go over well.

"I haven't fired a Glock in over two years. I'm more comfortable with a revolver," he explained tiredly. "I won't be able to take it on the flight with me, but you can because you're a federal agent. Just carry that instead of your Glock 27. Please, Aaron."

Aaron hesitated for just a moment, knowing that he'd have to lie when he was asked by airport security if he owned both weapons. Yet he understood the reluctance to carry a weapon he didn't feel comfortable with. Against his better judgment, Aaron agreed because more than anything, he wanted Spencer with him.

If Aaron was right, he wanted backup in case they came across the Hand Man. If he was wrong, Spencer wouldn't hold it against him. So Aaron packed the weapon and they left for the 9 PM flight from Dulles to Atlanta. Detzel lived on the north side of Columbus, which was only an hour and a half away from the Atlanta airport.

The second discussion was about alerting Detzel that they were coming. Spencer listed several reasons why alerting the Columbus PD wasn't a good idea, including "If the UnSub is in Columbus already, he's listing to the police band radio. When he hears that units are being dispatched to Detzel's home, he'll leave the city before we can get there."

"Agreed. We can meet him at his office tomorrow …"

"No!" Spencer snapped sharply. "We meet him at his home tonight."

"It will be after midnight."

"And when does the Hand Man strike?"

Aaron understood what his lover was driving at. "In the evenings or early morning hours."

"Call him, Aaron. Tell him you're on your way."

So Aaron did, patiently explaining to an already drunk Detzel why he should stay at home and not open the door for anyone except him. He didn't think much of it.

~~~~~~~~~

The flight to Atlanta and the drive to Columbus were spent in tense silence. He knew Spencer was upset and nothing he said was going to change that. Once they were parked in Detzel's driveway, it felt like the old days when he and Spencer worked a case together.

Before he opened the door, Spencer grabbed his wrist. "You don't have to do this."

"Spencer, we're already here."

"I know but … this? This is going to change everything."

"What do you mean?"

"It just will, Aaron."

Annoyed, he shook him off. "The only thing it's going to change is whether or not the case is open. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong."

Aaron got out of the car, debating the wisdom of showing up on the doorstep of a drunk attorney at 1:30 in the morning. As he shut the door, he watched as Spencer exited the vehicle and checked his weapon once he closed the door. They walked up to the modest house in silence, Aaron pulling out his badge and shield, fixing the latter on the kerchief pocket of his jacket. Spencer stayed a step behind, hands in his pockets.

Once at the front door, Aaron rang the doorbell twice. It took several minutes before they heard stumbling on the inside and the door finally swung open. Detzel reeked of alcohol and for a moment, Aaron wasn't a federal agent trying to save a man's life, he was a little kid dealing with his trashed-out-of-his-mind father.

"Mister Detzel," he began. "I'm Agent Hotchner. We spoke on the phone earlier."

"Yeah, yeah," the attorney slurred. "I'm in danger again." He swayed back on his feet before turning and haphazardly walking into the living room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron saw Spencer close the door. He then followed Detzel to where the man had sprawled out on a leather couch.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Aaron stated. Detzel waved his hand dismissively. Aaron began walking around the room, noting how overly masculine it was decorated. "Is there anyone else here, Mister Detzel?"

"Nope. Just me. Damn, where the hell is my drink?"

"Jack Daniels with two ice cubes in a tall glass, right?" Spencer suddenly asked.

Aaron had his back to Detzel and Spencer as he examined the man's bookshelves, but when he heard the question he began to turn.

Suddenly, Detzel sputtered, "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. It's you."

Aaron whipped around just in time to see Spencer pull his gun, aim and shoot. The gunshot echoed in the room and Detzel's brain splattered onto the couch and behind it. Luckily, none of the gore hit Aaron.

Finally, Aaron's brain got into gear. He rushed over to Spencer and yanked the gun out of his hand. "What the fuck, Spencer?" he yelled as he put the safety on and jammed the weapon in the back of his waistband. _"What the fuck are you doing?"_

"You need to call this in, Aaron," Spencer told him calmly. "But before you do, you have a decision to make."

"Spencer, you killed him!"

"How are you going to report this to 9-1-1?"

"What?"

His lover favored him with a patient gaze. "I suggest telling them that, when you arrived on the scene, you found the front door ajar. When you entered, you found Todd Detzel dead on the couch. You searched the house to confirm that no one else was there. You called 9-1-1."

"You want me to cover up what you did?" he demanded, appalled.

"If you don't, you'll be convicted as an accessory to first degree murder. After all, you did claim the murder weapon as yours when we went through airport security. You're a federal agent. You knew better. You also called Detzel and instructed him not to contact the police. That he was to stay here until you arrived."

Aaron swallowed hard as his mind raced. Things began falling into place in his mind, hard and painful. The betrayal made his knees weak. "You set me up."

"And when they look further into the case, they'll discover that you provided me access to classified materials on the Hand Man case. You discussed it with me frequently, keeping me appraised of the progress that was made."

"You're the dominant partner."

"I told you that you wouldn't like the answers."

"You killed him!"

"He was an unrepentant bad man who deserved his fate."

"He deserved justice!"

"Which was meted out."

"Good God, did you kill Dufresne?"

"We need to deal with Detzel before we talk about Dufresne, Aaron," Spencer chided and then tapped his chin. "This home is semi-secluded and in a heavily-wooded neighborhood. His nearest neighbors are eight hundred feet away. How about we pulled into the driveway and as we approached, we heard the gunshot? You led the charge, finding Detzel dead on the couch. We heard the backdoor slam close and you gave chase. I called 9-1-1 to relay the shooting after I checked the rest of the house; I'm a former agent so that will be very plausible. You gave up the chase shortly afterwards because you didn't have a mag light and you were unfamiliar with the surrounding areas. I think that may work better."

"How do you propose we explain your gun?"

"We need to agree on a strategy, Aaron. We don't have much time."

"No."

"Aaron," Spencer said softly, "you realize if you turn me in, your career is destroyed. You're accessory to murder, no matter how you look at it. Even if you're cleared of all charges, what will you do? You will be a disgraced FBI agent and you will be disbarred. Think about the fallout. Every case that you have worked on will now be reopened. Defense attorneys will level claims of misconduct. All those convictions will be in doubt. This isn't like Gideon walking away from the BAU. Unlike him, all the good you have done will be negated."

Bile raced up his throat. He coughed. His blood ran cold because he knew Spencer was telling him the truth. Aaron supposed he could deal with being ousted from the FBI and disbarred, but the repercussions throughout the legal system would be devastating.

Not only would his mistake affect the cases he'd worked over the years, it would cast doubt on everything within the BAU.

He had only one choice.

Aaron stared at the floor with tears in his eyes. "We pulled up to Detzel's home. As we exited the vehicle, we heard a gunshot. I instructed you to stay in the car because you were unarmed. I told you to call 9-1-1 before I took off inside the house."

"I disobeyed your order because you were going into an unknown situation without backup. I remembered what happened to Elle. I couldn't let that happen to you," Spencer added.

Aaron swallowed again, the warm enthusiasm in Spencer's voice making him nauseous. He nodded. "Okay … We found Detzel … we heard the backdoor …"

"Good, good," Spencer encouraged before walking swiftly to the back of the house. When he returned, he touched Aaron's elbow. "The backdoor was already unlocked. It's a standard deadbolt. We just have to smear the handles first before you place your prints on them. What else?"

"I chased after him, but lost him quickly. I was unfamiliar with the woods. I didn't have a tactical illumination on my Glock."

"I called 9-1-1 after I cleared the house." Spencer brushed his hand down the side of Aaron's face. "Then we're agreed?

Aaron did his best not to flinch. "That doesn't explain the gun, Spencer," he said hoarsely. "They'll know I checked a revolver at the airport. They'll need to run ballistics on it to eliminate it."

"Do we agree on what we tell the police?"

He met Spencer's gaze. He shivered, because his lover looked at him with such calmness that it was frightening. "Yes."

"Give me the revolver, Aaron. I'll take care of it." Spencer held out his hand. "Trust me, Aaron."

He closed his eyes. He reached behind him and pulled the weapon from his waistband. He handed it to Spencer.

Spencer gave him a soft kiss. "I love you, Aaron Hotchner."

He shivered as shame and horror washed over him.

He couldn't believe what he just agreed to.

He wondered how he was going to live with this decision.

~~~~~~~~~

_"If you're afraid to ask the question, it's probably because you already know the answer." – Miriam M. Wynn_

~~~~~~~~~

The murder of Todd Detzel was ruled a homicide, the latest in a series of home-invasions in the area and the first that resulted in a death. Ballistics tested Spencer's revolver, which the former agent pulled from the glove compartment of their rental car and turned over to police, and determined that it was not the weapon used in Detzel's murder. Apparently, it hadn't been fired in months. That same day a gun was found one mile from Detzel's home. Ballistics confirmed it was the weapon used to kill Todd Detzel.

Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner were cleared of any suspicion and headed back to Atlanta. Neither spoke the drive from Columbus to Atlanta. Neither spoke on the flight from Atlanta to DC.

Aaron had so many questions he wanted to ask.

He was terrified of what the answers would be.

After all, Spencer had somehow managed to sneak a gun through airport security in DC. The more Aaron thought about it, the more he wondered why he was surprised. Spencer chose to travel by rail because it was less traceable, less restrictive, and less security-controlled than air travel. Spencer had perfected going "off the grid" when he wanted and/or needed to by using a combination of cash and gift cards. He didn't carry a cell phone. He didn't communicate via email.

The letters Spencer had sent gave a timeline of where the man was, but Spencer never mentioned being in same cities as the Hand Man kills. The closest Spencer got was the Los Angeles and Santa Cruz murders; his letters put him in Pasadena and San Jose. Hotch also picked up the pattern to the kills; whenever Spencer talked about a new breakthrough in his research on injustice collectors by proxy, it corresponded with one of the Hand Man's kills.

Letters also matched up to the Mission Gasser killings.

Oh, those the reporters Spencer frothed about? Turned up dead or thoroughly disgraced.

Aaron didn't want to know how Spencer lured Alex Dufresne into committing those crimes as the Hand Man or if Dufresne was, in fact, innocent of everything. Was Dufresne just an overzealous fan with revenge fantasies that the Hand Man played out to perfection for him? And just how had Spencer orchestrated the Mission Gasser killings with Marsha Murphy? Had he been the dominant partner for the first four couples but allowed Murphy to dispatch the last as a reward for her loyalty?

And if Spencer truly classified himself as an injustice collector by proxy, why hadn't he targeted Haley? If Marcheon had been Spencer's ultimate target in his Hand Man kills, why wasn't Haley the final target in his Mission Gasser murders?

It was the only question he dared to ask, because if Haley died as a result of his silence …

Spencer stared at him for a long moment, frowning as if Aaron had asked the stupidest question ever. "During my research," which was terminology Spencer used for all his killings, "I discovered that the female adulterers were forgiven of all their transgressions by their husbands. The widowers blamed themselves for their wives taking on a lover, and publicly stated that their wives' death was a result of their failure to be a good husband."

Aaron looked down at his hands. "You believed that I would take the same route."

"I know you, Aaron. You would have. As I stated several times, I consider you mine. I don't share. If your adulterous ex-wife were to fall victim to a crime such as the Mission Gasser, she would have a claim over you, a claim she does not deserve."

"Then she's not a target."

"She'll never be a target, Aaron. Surely you understand why."

And Aaron did.

So he kept his silence, refusing to dwell on the decision he made down in Georgia.

Spencer moved in with him, accepting a teaching position at Georgetown University.

Aaron continued to lead the BAU, although he gave himself a year before he would retire.

It wasn't perfect.

It never would be.

And Aaron Hotchner wondered how long it would be before Spencer Reid grabbed his hand and asked him to jump in front of an oncoming train.

Because in Aaron's experience, that was the only way their relationship would ever last.

He was, after all, in love with a psychopath.

~~~~~ Finis ~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> I know that UnSub!Spencer isn't going to be a popular resolution and, yes, there was a reason it was somewhat telegraphed throughout the story. This story was inspired by prompt from a kink meme: "He never noticed how tempting the genius could be, until he became the very thing he hunted. Hotch being gradually seduced by a snapped Reid who is killing in Hotch's name. (preferably Pre-divorce)" back in December 2011. When the CMBB came up, I decided to tackle this.
> 
> This is the first story in a very long time that I plotted out from start to finish because of the complexity of the subplots. I purchased a map of the US and marked where Spencer's letters were from and how close the cities where the victims were located. I spent a stupid amount of time on Amtrak's website making sure that I could get Spencer from Point A to Point B and be virtually untraceable. His letters provided a timeline and a trail of his kills, but since they weren't in the same cities as his letters originated from, it could cause reasonable doubt.
> 
> What caused Reid to snap? For me, it was the overwhelming guilt from the Fisher King coupled with Elle's downfall, and knowing that if Elle hadn't killed the rapist in Dayton, the man would have gone free. I also purposefully set Reid's departure prior to "The Big Game/Revelations" since him leaving because of Hankel has been done several times. I wanted a different reason.
> 
> Reid's ambivalence towards Morgan was intentional. He considers Morgan a threat (and Garcia to a lesser extent because she can track him), but he would never target any member of the BAU, no matter how close they got to the truth. The men and women Reid targeted were "unrepentant bad men" (which is a direct quote from the Fisher King). Does he stop killing now that Hotch knows the truth? That's up to the reader.
> 
> Did Hotch realize that the Hand Man and/or the Mission Gasser could be Reid? Was that final confrontation to force Reid to reveal himself? Again, that's up to the reader. However, I did write this believing that, in his mind, Hotch kept Spencer and the Job separate, even though Spencer wrote a treatise about injustice collectors by proxy.
> 
> As for Reid's "research," isn't there an old writing adage that says, "Write what you know?"
> 
> There are no plans for a sequel.


End file.
